


Over Time and Tide

by CeleryThesis



Series: Over Time and Tide [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 82,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6536038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleryThesis/pseuds/CeleryThesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks<br/>Within his bending sickle's compass come;<br/>Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,<br/>But bears it out even to the edge of doom.<br/>If this be error and upon me proved,<br/>I never writ, nor no man ever loved.<br/>from Sonnet 116<br/>Snape lives and the epilogue does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

dear girl  
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard  
over time  
and tide and death  
leaping  
Sweetly  
your voice

e.e. cummings

 

**April 2010**

**Hermione**

 

It was Thursday evening, and she was in London with him until Tuesday morning.  Four whole days stretched out in front of her like a luxurious carpet.  She had to spend some hours devoted to research and writing, but that left copious time to loaf.  She sighed, already having begun in that pursuit. She was wallowing in the enormous tub, mostly covered in bubbles, hair wound on the top of her head, holding her book in one hand and gently scooping water on to her belly with the other. She had a glass of pinot noir on the ledge; his was cabernet sauvignon. His feet were folded at the ankle, abutting her hip. Her feet were resting on his chest, where he had pulled them up. He was slowly rubbing one them, his own book hiding most of his face.

“These…little…touches,” he said, and the low timbre of his voice floated across the tub.

She glanced up from her book to see him examining her toenails.  She shot him a quizzical look. He brushed the bubbles off her big toe in response.

“For the quidditch?” He asked

“What?”

“Your red toes.  For the Gryffindor match?”

She yanked her foot closer to look at it as a reflex although she was well aware that her toenails were painted.  She laughed.

“They’re brown.”

“They’re quite red,” he countered.

“They’re reddish brown. The bottle said _Chocolate Kisses_. And certainly not for quidditch.  I didn’t even know…” She looked at him and realized he was teasing her.

“It’s all anyone has had to talk about for weeks.  Saturday; Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Championship.” He pulled her foot back to him.

“I suppose I’ll have to repaint them red and gold sparkles for the big match.”

He made a shuddering noise.

She splashed him carefully with her foot, avoiding his book. He grasped the foot and held it to defend against further attack.

“Quidditch,” she was abashed at being so gullible and wiggled her toes in his hand.

“Weasley was born in a bin,” he sang slyly under his breath.

“Severus,” she said warningly.

“He always lets the quaffle in.”

“Enough bath for me,” she said mock-huffily, reaching for a towel at the side of the tub.

“I’ll stop. Stay in.”

Hermione had no intention of moving for at least another half hour. She subtly cast a warming charm at the increasingly tepid water and sank back, pointedly ignoring him, refocusing on a particularly esoteric sentence about the American Voting Rights Act of 1965.

“Weasley is our king!” He sang under his breath with barely repressed laughter.  She kicked water on him not minding his book whatsoever.

“Stop! I’ll stop. Such offense for someone who claims not to care for…”

“I don’t care about the quidditch, obviously! I couldn’t help being dragged along into it.  And Draco wrote that clever tune, if you recall.”

“Draco is our king,” he said wryly.

She couldn’t deny it.

“Potter and Weasley and Granger,” he was full-on smirking now.

“We were a lot.”

“The times I wanted to feed you three to the squid.”

“Well, thank you for not.”

“Of course.” He returned to his book, potions theory that was beyond her ability to comprehend, or at least beyond her interest. She tickled one of his feet at her side and he bumped her hip with it.

“Dear old Ronald,” she teased him back.

“Let us now praise Weasley,” he deadpanned.

“He was a lovely boy and is an exceptional man.”

“He set the bar spectacularly low in some respects, I’ll…”

“I won’t hear of it, Darling. He loved me and deserved better.” They were both still ostensibly glued to their books.

“Oh, now let’s not go that far. Weasley is happy enough with his life and…brood. We’re happy…”

She put her book down for good and half-floated, half scooted across the tub, removed his book from his hand, and kissed him on the mouth before settling in under his arm with her head on his chest and her leg draped across his pelvis. His hair was salt and pepper, long at the top, short everywhere else. She pushed a grey lock back from his forehead and kissed his temple, and he squeezed her tighter to him.

“We have four whole days,” she sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

**June and July 1998**

**Hermione**

 

Hogwarts was in shambles, the Ministry was in flux, and Severus Snape was unconsciousness at St. Mungo’s.  His near fatal injuries left him clinging to life with an uncertain prognosis.  He had been tried and acquitted in absentia by the Wizengamot, but that made little difference if he wasn’t to survive anyway.

The Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were all back at the Burrow by mid-June. Hermione, Harry, and Ron had been in London for weeks at the Ministry answering questions and giving testimony.  They were now in varying degrees starving, exhausted, furious, relieved, and traumatized. Molly had taken to bed to mourn her son. The rest of them tip-toed around, trying to maintain the family the way she did, and mostly failing.

Fleur, Ginny, and Hermione attempted to keep people fed, and most were too close to starvation to care much, but Molly’s expertise in magical cooking for a crowd was sorely lacking in their meals. Hermione was almost too damaged to care that she had been relegated to kitchen duty after months in that tent. Arthur brought his wife food, most of which came back hardly touched. After twenty days in seclusion, Molly emerged, probably because of a primordial urge to feed everyone better. Her eyes were close to dead, and she shuffled around without much energy, but the food situation improved drastically. Hermione, who had lost almost two stone in the last year, was relieved. Within a week of Molly’s emergence, many seemed mentally and physically healthier, Molly included.

George was mostly staying away, giving the excuse that he didn’t want the shop to fail. Percy was in and out, but usually at the Ministry. Charlie was home for the summer at least.

Without having a conversation about it, Ginny and Harry were staying in Ginny’s room, and Ron and Hermione were in Ron’s next door. Hermione, who had never had problems sleeping before, clung to Ron in bed. Both slept fitfully and suffered from terrifying, realistic dreams. Hermione dreamt almost every night of being at Malfoy Manor, being cursed by Madam Lestrange and waiting for Greyback to rape and murder her, terrified and without hope. She would wake up and adjust to the reality—no longer in immediate peril, but surrounded by loss. It took weeks at the Burrow, eating enough food, and not having to face constant stress, that she began not having the dream every night.

One morning, Hermione woke to sunlight streaming in the open window, hitting Ron’s sleeping face, and making him look like a prince in a Renaissance painting. She kissed him lightly on the mouth, and he stirred and then took her into his arms, kissing her deeply. She felt him harden against her leg, and instantly decided that this was as good a time as any. She quietly cast a contraceptive charm and pulled her t-shirt over her head. She rolled him on top of her and reached into his shorts, making her intentions very clear.  He moaned into her mouth.

“Are you sure, Hermione?”

“I’m very sure.  Do you want to?” She pushed her knickers off, and he kicked off his shorts as a sort of reply.  It already felt wonderful to have him lying on top of her with nothing between them. 

He was slightly more sexually experienced than her from his days with Lavender, but he had told her that he was technically a virgin, too. She bent her knees beside his hips and helped him try to guide himself into her. It wasn’t a smooth process.  He couldn’t get more than the tip in.  She moved her hips and tried to open up more, but he was still stuck.

“It’s okay.  Let’s keep trying,” she whispered.  To his credit, he didn’t get frustrated.  He dipped his head to kiss her breasts, which heightened her arousal almost immediately.  He brought a hand down to rub her gently where she was most sensitive, licked his fingers, and rubbed her again, this time inserting a finger.

“Is this okay?”  He whispered.

“Yes, it’s lovely.”

“I love you, Hermione.”

“I know, I love you, too.”

This time he was able to enter her most of the way.  When he moaned, it made her feel giddy.  The act wasn’t really painful for her, but it felt very foreign, and more than a bit surreal.  He moved in deeper twice and then came with a shudder and collapsed on her.

“Sorry, I…” He said into her shoulder.

“No, it was lovely, Ron; it was perfect.”

“Do you want me to…?

“No, I loved it; I’m fine.”

“What about… I came inside you.” he said in the start of a panic.

“Birth control? I took care of it. Charm. Maybe I’ll start taking the potion now so we don’t have to think about it each time?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Hermione.”

“Of course.” They held each other tightly until it was time to go down to breakfast.

It had been pretty much what she had expected for a first time.  She was so relieved that she’d had this experience her with her favorite boy at the Burrow instead of violently with some horrible Death Eater; she really couldn’t ask for more.  She assumed she would get more out of it with practice.

By July, most afternoons were spent playing quidditch. Hermione realized that she had spent most summers at the Burrow counting down the days before it was time to return to Hogwarts.  She helped Molly with whatever domestic chores she would share (not many), and searched for reading material. Charlie found her sneering at the paltry Weasley library in the sitting room, and brought her his stash of books from university. He had four history books Hermione had never heard of, and she thanked him profusely and practically skipped outside to sit on a blanket and lose herself in the wizarding world of the past. Crookshanks refused to leave her side for the first few weeks after they were reunited at the Burrow, and she scratched his fuzzy, orange head while she read.

People started to talk about plans. Bill and Fleur were going back to Shell Cottage; Bill to resume his career at Gringotts, and Fleur talked openly about being ready for un bebe. Ginny was headed back to school. Harry and Ron were moving to Twelve Grimmauld Place and beginning Auror training as their seventh year had been waived in favor of immediate placement. Demand was high after the battle and the staggering losses. The same offer was made to Hermione, but it sounded dreadful to her. She was completely drained of the energy and drive that life would take. She never wanted to cast another defensive spell. She desperately wanted to go back to school and finish and figure out what to do then.

The more she read Charlie’s books, the more she was convinced that she just wanted to study and research, maybe to write and maybe to teach and maybe to do something else. She would need to return to Hogwart’s to read for her N.E.W.T.s and then continue at the wizarding university. She had no idea if the newly appointed Headmistress would even let her return for a belated seventh year, or how she would fund it if the Headmistress did accept her back.

Hermione also thought endlessly about her parents. She had come to the conclusion that they were better off where they were, having the life they now lived, not being bothered by her. She knew when she placed the spell on them that it was almost certainly irreversible. Now even if she wanted to attempt to counter-act it, she had no resources. She was practically destitute. She had barely enough in her Gringotts account to cover her school fees, let alone travel overseas on an almost certainly futile mission.

She longed to discuss this with her them. She started keeping a journal in which she would pour out her heart to her mum and dad. The pages were filled with confusion, grief, and anger. Being practical to a fault, it was with this exercise that she decided to reach out to the only person she thought might be actually able to help.

 

Dear Headmistress McGonagall,

I hope this finds you well. I am at the Burrow currently, feeling rather adrift but hoping to put some plans in motion.

 I am very interested in returning to Hogwarts to complete year seven and study for my N.E.W.T.s.  I have missed the routine (and comfort) of the school every day since I left. I truly miss everything about it.

I’m abashed to admit that I find myself in a very tenuous financial situation. I was hoping to take on some kind of apprenticeship in which I could teach some first year classes or perhaps work in the library or on the hospital wing. I know this is not travelled territory at Hogwarts, but with all of the destruction and loss, I thought perhaps you might need some help. I’m eager to do whatever you need me to, whether or not you can pay me.

Please give my best to all the staff, and especially to Professor Snape, whose complete recovery I’m hoping is imminent.

Yours sincerely,

Hermione Granger

 

She sent it with an owl and tried to be satisfied with Burrow life until it was time to move on.  Everyone else seemed to be at their best at home nestled away under Molly’s care. An ember of uncertainty and discontent was glowing in the pit of her belly, though. Everyone clearly accepted that she and Ron were a couple, were soul mates, would marry and procreate and spend the rest of their lives in the clan. Harry and Ginny were certainly headed that way as well.  Instead of being scandalized at the room arrangements, Molly behaved as though she already had a new daughter and son in law in Harry and Hermione. It was unspoken but quite clear.

Ron openly talked about the future, of them living at Grimmauld Place for the next few years and eventually moving to a flat of their own. Hermione didn’t speak up, but she wondered what he assumed she would be doing. Keeping the house? Commuting to and from Hogwarts or a university? Working for the Ministry in the magical creatures department or the like?

Hermione couldn’t even think about S.P.E.W. or all of that hat knitting without cringing.  How little she understood about elves, so convinced she was correct and morally superior in her stand.  Not once had she actually made the lives of the house elves better or even easier. She inwardly chided herself for her nagging arrogance that compelled her to interfere with something she didn’t really understand. It was at the top of a long queue of her own traits and behavior that made she shudder with embarrassment when she thought back. Haughty, self-righteous, insufferable—the adjectives danced endlessly in her head.

She lay in bed next to sleeping Ron night after night perplexed about what to do. She loved the Weasleys dearly, but they weren’t her family, really.  Her small, tidy family of sensible, like-minded three had been lost. As much affection she had for these surrogates, it never felt like home should. Trying to transform Arthur and Molly into substitute parents just made her feel worse.

She had no one to talk this over with. Harry was all too thrilled to be in a big, loving tribe.  Fleur was so besotted with Bill that it wouldn’t matter if her in-laws were trolls. She clearly had no problem speaking her mind or being herself when she was around the Weasleys, often to a cringe-worthy fault. 

Hermione wasn’t sure if she had a place in the world, but she felt certain that this wasn’t it. 

The worst of it was that she truly loved Ron. He was kind and protective and attentive. Now that sex was on the table, they engaged in it often. Hermione was relieved to turn her mind off for a while although it didn’t always work. 

They could sometimes hear Henry and Ginny next door in the throes of…something. Neither seemed to be able to cast an effective silencing charm, so Hermione and Ron heard it all. Harry’s grunts of “Oh, Ginny!” and Ginny’s moans and squeals when, presumably, she came. 

“Ugh, that’s my sister. And my best mate!” Ron said in disgust, seemingly trying to decide which was worse.

It didn’t really put Hermione off, but she cast her own protective spell so they wouldn’t hear the next room. Harry and Ginny at least sounded as though they were much better at the whole business than she and Ron were. It annoyed her competitive nature. It also bothered her that it wasn’t really getting any better. She blamed herself; perhaps she was too psychologically numb to enjoy it in any scenario. Ron seemed more than satisfied with the way it played out every time in the following order: kissing, groping, thrusting, dew-eyed appreciation and love declarations, sleep. Hermione realized that if she wanted a change in the routine, she would have to initiate it, but she wasn’t sure she even wanted to with Ron. She had dreamt and speculated about sex for years, with him and with others. Now here she was, it wasn’t great, and she didn’t really care enough to try to make it better.

A shocking thought hit her one night when he was sleeping, and she couldn’t get comfortable enough or slow her mind down enough to sleep. This wasn’t going to work. She was not going to end up with Ron. She had to get out. The thought was both liberating and terrifying. She would lose the closest thing to a family and probably most of her friends. She wouldn’t spend every holiday here. She would be alone. That thought, she realized with more clarity than she’d had in months, was preferable than staying in this bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**August 1998**

**Severus**

Flicker.  Dark.

Flicker.  Pain. PAIN. Dark.

Flicker.  Movement. Pain. Dark.

Flicker.  Green. Green movement. White. Brown. A pane; a window pane. A tree?  Breeze.  Focus. Yes, a window and a tree. Too hot. Stuffy and sweaty. Headache. Too much pain. Too tired. Dark.

Flicker.  Focus.  A person.  A young woman.  A healer in white.  _I’m here.  I’m here._

“Hello,” she said.  “Hello.  Are you there?” She took his hand, feeling for something. “Stay with us, okay? I’m going to get...” Dark.

“Professor? Professor?”

Someone was yelling in his face. Everything hurt, he just wanted it to go away.

“Professor Snape?” The yelling was louder.

“Yes,” he tried to say, but he couldn’t hear his voice.

“Don’t try to talk, Professor. Just open your eyes, okay? Open your eyes for me.”

 _No. Go away._ Almost against his own will he opened his eyes a crack.

“There you are,” the young woman was on one side, but she was not the yeller. That one was older. That one had her lit up wand in his face making him want to crawl back into his dark hole.  His head felt as if it might detach itself from his body and fly into the wall.

“Can you see this light?”

 _Obviously._ He nodded.

She took his hand and held his palm against hers. “Press against my hand,” she ordered.

He did it but tried to make it clear he’s doing it with withering contempt. _Leave me alone and let my head detach itself._

“Very good, Professor. Welcome back.” She launched into a narrative about venom and a ripped throat, and blood loss and coma. His throat was different, he realized. It felt foreign to his body.  No wonder his head was so eager to be free of it.

“We repaired your throat. It’s not the same; it wasn’t a miracle, but it should do. We just weren’t sure if…” She trailed off. “Professor, you lost so much blood, and you were practically dead when they found you. We didn’t know what the outcome would be. It’s going to be very hard to speak for a while. I have a few more procedures I want to try; do you understand what I’m saying? Just nod.”

Of course he understood. What kind of idiot did this woman think he was? He nodded in the most recalcitrant way he could manage.

She smiled proudly as if he were her toddler who had just counted to three for the first time.  Detestable.

“Anabel, help the professor with some water. I’m going to contact your friends; they will be so pleased!  Professor McGonagall, uh Headmistress, will be here later anyway, but she should come now.”

 _Oh, please don’t._ If all this indignity wasn’t enough, he would have to face Minerva. The last time he could remember talking to her...he shuddered. He suspected he would be on his way to Azkaban very soon. The older healer whisked out of the room. The younger one propped him up with entirely more physical contact than made him comfortable and then poured a cup of water and held it to his lips. Her expression—was it revulsion?  Pity? She looked bored. He had no idea where his wand was, probably confiscated, but out of habit he thought _legilimens_ and tried to slip into her head.

Nothing. He tried again, panic creeping in. Perhaps he wasn’t strong enough. Perhaps he needed his wand. _Lumos_ , he thought, and the room brightened considerably.

“Was that you, Sir?” The young healer asked. “Getting your strength back? Try to drink this, Professor.”

She tilted the cup and the liquid pooled into his mouth. He swallowed and was alarmed to discover that his throat was full of razor blades. He spat it out, trying not to hit the healer but mostly failing. He thrust his hand in a fist with his thumb pointing out and rotated his wrist, looking at the healer.

“You want your wand?”

He nodded.

She opened a drawer beside his bed, pulled it out, and handed it to him.

“Your wand and your boots were they only things we could salvage from your effects. I’m sorry to tell you all of your clothes were ruined.”

He didn’t care about the clothes. He pointed his wand in her direction and thought _legilimens_ intensely at her. Nothing. He sat back in bed in bewilderment. He pointed his wand at the window and thought the spell incantation. The window popped open and the breeze that had been shaking the leaves just outside wafted in.

“Not bad, Sir. Guess you don’t need your voice.”

He gave her a withering look and slumped back down in the bed, putting his wand on the little bedside table. He realized he had some kind of wrapping…some kind of bandage that covered half of his right ear down to his shoulder.

“Now, Sir, you have to drink this. Madam Nix will be just back, and what will she say?”

Madame Nix and her lackey could bugger off for good as far as he was concerned. He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

“Severus! They said you were awake. Wake up, now, you!” Poppy’s voice dragged him back.  He had no idea how long he had been asleep; it seemed like hours.

 _Oh, leave me alone at once._ He cracked an eye. She was hunched over him, her face way too close. No sign of McGonagall. He felt relieved and tried to sit up.

“Here lean forward,” Poppy expertly maneuvered him so he was upright again. “You look really good, Severus.  I’m serious. I wasn’t sure we’d ever see you among the living again.” She squeezed his arm.

He reached for his wand and looked around the room for something to write on.  He mimed it with his wand for her, and she reached into her bag and pulled out something that looked like a shopping list. He cut his eyes at her, but she just smiled.

 _What is going on with me?_ he wrote on the paper with his wand.

“Didn’t the healer talk to you? I swear these hospital…”

 _Poppy!_ The word blistered across the page. 

“Yes, okay. The snake damaged your throat severely inside and out. As glad as I am to see you conscious, it is no doubt a good thing that you’ve been out for weeks. You’ve had treatment after treatment to repair the injuries.  They still have work to do.

He touched the dressing at his neck gingerly. _Will I ever speak?_

“There is reason to be optimistic, Severus, but you are going to have to try very hard. They were waiting for you to wake up, but now you will be working with a restorative healer to get your voice back. 

_It’s agony to swallow._

Poppy made a clucking noise. “I know it must be awful, Severus, but you have to start eating and drinking today. They’ve kept you alive and nourished, but you have to start taking nutrients through your mouth if you want to regain full strength. They will help you with the pain, and it should ease a bit every day. I wish we could charm this all away.”

Severus gave her a side-eye. She was treating him like a first-year who had fallen off his broom and broken his arm.

_Dark Lord?_

“Dead. Defeated. We triumphed, Severus. It’s hard to remember sometimes through all of the loss…” Her voice trailed off. “But it’s done. He’s dead.” She looked close to tears.

_Potter?_

“Alive. Fine. A hero.”

He rolled his eyes spectacularly. She smacked his arm lightly.

_Am I in trouble? Azkaban?_

“No, no, no, dear!”  She couldn’t hold herself back; she launched herself to embrace him.  He patted her back--awkwardly and clearly stating _get off me, woman_.

She sat back down in the little chair beside his bed. “No! You were acquitted. The Wizengamot was unanimous. Potter was your star witness, by the way.”

_Please kill me now._

“Oh, Severus, let it go for once,” she said with a laugh. 

He gave her a resigned half smile.

“Minerva will be along, soon. She’s been named Headmistress. She wants you back—she needs you back, we all do, Severus. There is so much loss; so much damage. I don’t know if it can ever be rebuilt to the way…” Her voice drifted off and she looked tired and sad. “We need you, Professor Snape. So you’re going to have to get well and get out of here as soon as possible.”

_Fine._

“That’s the spirit. Minerva will be along. I don’t suppose you’ll let me kiss your forehead.”

_Very perceptive._

“All right. Here’s some more scrap paper. Keep these healers on their toes. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Severus’s eyes followed her out the door where Minerva McGonagall was hovering, seemingly trying to summon up enough courage to enter. He saw her shoulders hitch upward as if she was steeling herself. She walked to the chair Poppy had just been in.

“Severus.”

He looked at her neutrally, enjoying the advantage of being unable to speak.

“Oh, Severus, I’m so sorry,” she gripped his arm; eyes brimming with tears. Of all reactions he was expecting, this had not occurred to him. He looked at her, trying to express fundamental confusion.

“I feel so ashamed for not trusting you; for thinking such awful…”

He quickly picked up one of the papers and his wand.

_Minerva, how could you have thought differently? It was a horrendous year._

“How…how are you?”

He sighed and raised an eyebrow.

_Splendid._

“Are you in much pain?”

_Only when I breathe._

“Poppy is very optimistic.”

_Shocking._

She seemed at a loss of words. He took pity on her.

_I tried to protect the students. I know I failed. Trying to serve both sides, not letting them....  What happened to the children at the_

He paused here not knowing what to call it. The war? The battle? He scratched through the last two words.

_In the end?_

“Most of them left safely, the littles at least. Oh, Severus, it was horror beyond words. We tried…” She pulled a handkerchief from her belt and dabbed her eyes. “It was chaos. A catastrophe. And I suppose a miracle that not all of them died. And that he did, of course.” She looked him straight in the eye.

_Yes, that was a miracle. And Potter lived._

“Potter lives.”

Her mouth turned in a slight smile, and he matched her expression.

_Are many students returning?_

“More than you would think, given the state of the castle. Term starts in three weeks.”

 _Three weeks?  It’s…date?_   He scribbled furiously. 

“August eighth, Severus.”

Merlin’s beard. Three months of his life as if it had been one night.

_Is the school ready?_

“Not really, but we’re working night and day. It’s been a coup to retain as many as we have; there has been so much loss, but people, I think, are anxious to get back to normal life and put the horror behind them. Not very many Slytherins returning as of yet, Severus,” she said ruefully.

 _That’s to be expected. Staff loss?_ He braced himself for the answer.

“Justine Craftwick was killed in the battle. Remus and Nymphadora were killed, too.”

His body clinched involuntarily, and he was flooded with pain.

_Their child?_

“He’s fine. He’s with her mother.”

_And Professor Craftwick? Fighting?_

“Everyone fought, Severus,” she said, slightly reproachfully. “I finally finished boxing up her things. Dreadful job.”

Severus had known Justine since his student days. She had been a quiet Ravenclaw, who had been the Charms assistant for years. She had elderly parents who always showed up for special events. She had stared daggers at him the last time they had come face to face. 

_Her parents?_

“Devastated, of course. No one has been unscathed, though. It’s just too much for some. Horace has decided to resume retirement.”

Good for Slughorn. Snape couldn’t help a bit of sneer.

“That leaves us a dilemma. Both Defense and Potions are open. I’ve hired an apprentice to fill in at Potions until you can return. Filius, Pomona, and I are splitting defense for now. My idea,” she paused here and looked at him, “is for you to teach the sixth and seventh years for both disciplines this year, and then you can decide which one you want to take for good, and we’ll hire someone for the other.”

He suddenly felt quite overwhelmed. She soldiered on.

“And there’s more. We’re trying to reorganize the whole…fundamental program. The first years will still be sorted, but the houses are going to be…reduced in importance. We’ll still have the house competition and quidditch, and the like, of course, but we’re going to mix up the dormitories and class schedules.”

 _How will this work?_ His brain was too flooded with information to protest.

“By age, we think, or at least we’re going to try. Pomona is going to take the first years in the Hufflepuff basement. The second and third years will be in the tower;”

Severus rolled his eyes at the mention of “the tower” of course it didn’t need to be specified, it was the most important. So very Gryffindor.

“I’ll be responsible for them at first, but of course I’ll be looking for someone to take over. We plan to house the fourth and fifth years at Slytherin, and Filius is taking the sixth and sevenths into Ravenclaw Tower.”

_So I will have the fourteen and fifteen year olds?_

“If you’re willing. I know this is a lot.”

_And the heads of the houses?_

“Recent graduates. Mr. Zabini and Mr. Wood have already agreed. Filius and Pomona are working on the other two. The Heads won’t necessarily live at the school. They can commute in when they are needed.”

He had no idea what to think about what she was saying, so he just looked at her as neutrally as possible.

“Try to take it all in. I will be back every day to talk about it more with you; to do whatever I need to help you. I will also bring in the work the apprentice has been doing getting ready for Potions classes to make sure it’s up to standards.”

Severus sighed warily.

“Impossible, I know.” She smiled at him kindly and patted his arm. “Please, Severus, do whatever you can to hasten your recovery.  I need your help. I don’t want to make it sound like a full blown existential crisis, but that’s what it is.”

_I shall do my best, Professor._

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” she left him with a smile and another pat on the arm.


	4. Chapter 4

**August and September 1998**

**Hermione**

 

The news of Professor’s Snape’s awakening spread through the castle quickly.  Hermione had spent the last week excavating the potions dungeon, digging through the Slughorn era down to the Snape. Professor Slughorn hadn’t really changed much, but he hadn’t been careful about putting books and supplies back in order.  He’d clearly had a house elf in charge of cleaning, so at least the cauldrons, glassware, and tools were immaculate. The bookshelves and stores were entirely another matter.  No wonder Harry had lucked into Professor Snape’s copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ , which should have been shelved with his other books in a small bookcase in the very back of the teacher workspace.  Hermione had found the bookcase on the second day of her mission, and she almost cried in relief.  She spent the rest of the day reading his marginalia in each of the books. Tucked in between two volumes was a binder of parchment that not only outlined how each year’s potion course was organized, but also contained a diagram of the layout of the stores. This time, joyful tears really did fall.

 

**********

 

She had apparated to the point outside the school with her beaded bag and cat carrier on the first of August. Professor McGonagall was waiting for her with a rather grim look.  Hermione had received an answer to her letter promptly at the Burrow, _yes, you are most certainly needed at the school, and come as quickly as you can_ , but the Headmistress had given no details of what Hermione’s job would be.

“Professor Snape’s condition is stable, but he’s still in a coma,” Professor McGonagall had told her.  “He is looking healthier, but of course…” she trailed off. They were walking up the path to the castle. It looked mostly the same. She could see traces of damage, but they had obviously been hard at work all summer.

“I will do everything I can to help.” _Please not Defense_ , she thought to herself.

“I need you to be his apprentice in Potions.”

Relief flooded into Hermione at the word. 

“I can’t think of something I’d rather do than immerse myself in potions,” Hermione said sincerely. 

The Headmistress laughed.

“Well, you know.” Hermione felt herself flush. She was so nervous.

“You will teach all of the classes until he returns. You will continue to teach through fifth year for the whole term, probably for the whole school year. I know this is a daunting challenge, but you are more than capable, Miss Granger.”

She was thrilled to throw herself into this kind of challenge, no matter how daunting.

Professor McGonagall explained the changes for the new school year and offered to escort her to Ravenclaw Tower so Hermione could get settled in. Hermione was surprised at how happy she was not to be heading back to Gryffindor. Not only did it look out onto what had become the battlefield, but she had only ever roomed with Parvati and Lavender. They had never been her best friends, but they were inextricably tied to her experience and memories. It would be easier to start over fresh.

She had never been in Ravenclaw Tower before, though she thought she could picture it through Luna’s stories and description. It was bigger yet sparser than Gryffindor. The window-lined round common room was set up more conducive to work than for conversation, which appealed to Hermione immediately. The girls’ dorm had more single rooms, and each room had several windows that looked onto the lake. Hermione choose a small, corner, single room.  Being able to see in two directions appealed to her immensely.

“We are going to offer you the position of Head Girl,” Professor McGonagall told her. “Perhaps you would like to choose a larger room?”

Hermione sucked in breath. 

“Headmistress, I’d really rather not. Being responsible for Potions…I’m afraid it would be too much.”

“That’s fine. I suspected you would decline. Owls will go out in the morning with both the title announcements and the news of the reorganization, so please don’t say anything about all of this until after they do. It’s going to cause a stir, we’re sure, and we would rather be the ones to introduce the subject.”

“Oh, of course.” Hermione hadn’t planned to say a word anyway. Her goodbye had been rather awkward; everyone at the Burrow was in shock with her sudden news and departure. She hoped the next morning’s missives would turn everyone’s attention that way.

“Thank you, Professor…Headmistress,” Hermione said quietly.  “For all of this. I will do everything I can…”

“Thank you, Miss Granger.  I’ll leave you to get settled. Meal times haven’t changed.  I’ll see you at lunch?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Hermione sat on the bed and let Crookshanks out of the carrier. 

“New home, Boy. Do you want to explore?”

He gave her the side-eye over his shoulder as he sauntered out of the room. Hermione pulled his dishes and litter supplies out of the bag first and went in search of the pet room. It was three doors down, much more convenient than the set-up at Gryffindor. She placed Crooks’s littler in a place he could easily see from the door and filled his water and food dishes to keep in her room.

She made her bed and covered it with the purple and black plaid duvet she and her mother had picked out before third year when she had wanted something more grown up. She placed her few articles of clothes in the bureau and wardrobe. There were new ties and robes that she would have to make a trip to Diagon Ally for. She placed a non-magical picture of her parents and a magical one of the whole group from this summer on the table by her bed. Ron was behind her and had his arms draped over her shoulders holding her hands and pressing his face next to hers. He kissed her cheek and then smiled at the camera again and again. She turned the picture so it could be seen by people entering the room but not from the bed.

She set her books (alphabetic by subject and then author’s last name) neatly in the bookshelf.  She would need room for her year seven materials, but she hoped to have a workspace in the dungeon.

Her sole focus this year as a student was doing well enough on her N.E.W.T.s to be accepted to university.  She would be doing history independent study (she really didn’t need to spend any more quality time with Professor Binns), and she would be taking Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Herbology, and Potions. She was opting out of Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense against the Dark Arts, none of which were required for admittance into the school of history.

She found Crooks to tell him where to find his essentials and that she would be back late, and headed down to lunch. The staff were extremely warm in their greetings, aside from Professor Trelawney, and Professor Flitwick made sure Hermione sat by him.

“How did you find the tower?” He asked her in his little voice that she had missed so much.

“It’s lovely, Professor, I really like it.”

“So what are your feelings about all of the changes?” He said with a worried tone.

“I think it’s wonderful, honestly. I’m very happy to live with sixth and seventh years. I’m really pleased we’ll all be together.”

“I hope others agree,” he paused as food appeared on the tables before them and people began to tuck in, “We’re ready for an onslaught of opinions tomorrow.”

“Just wait until the parents and students find out that a seventh year is teaching Potions until Professor Snape can return.”

“Just wait until people find out that we are welcoming Professor Snape back,” he said, “gods willing of a full recovery.”

“Surely parents willing to send their children here understand he was exonerated?”

He smiled warily. She was ravenous and took a generous bite of roast beef sandwich. Heaven. She wasn’t sure she would ever get used to abundant food.

He ate a few bites himself and then resumed. “It was terrible here last year, Miss Granger. I’m rather surprised that we are able to open at all. Looking back, we can see what Professor Snape did to keep the brutality and…inhumanity to a minimum, but at the time it was the hardest part—to witness a trusted colleague choose the other side. Professors McGonagall and Sprout and I vowed we would go down with the ship, so to speak, but it was truly painful every day to be here.”

 

Hermione spent the rest of the day in the dungeon beginning her excavation. She slept fitfully that night, scared to be all alone in the tower, holding Crookshanks as tightly against her as he would allow.

The next night at dinner after her joyous discovery in the dungeon, one of the Weasley owls dropped two letters in Hermione’s lap.

 

Dear Hermione,

How are you?  There’s so much I want to talk to you about.  The good news first: I was named Head Girl.  Can you believe it?  Mum has smiled more in the last few hours than she has all summer.  No pressure or anything.

I CANNOT BELIEVE what they’ve done to the houses. Madness! Don’t they know it’s hard enough to come back and try to have a decent last year, and then they ruin everything? Ravenclaw? Are they effing serious? UGH!

Write me back, tell me what you’re doing. Harry and Ron are moving next week. I wish I could go with them.

Love,

Ginny

 

Hermione was already composing her response in her head as she hesitatingly opened the next one. 

 

Dear Hermione,

I miss you already. Ginny won’t shut-up about the Houses being combined. I get that it’s rubbish, but enough already. I hope you can handle her.

Harry and I are moving to Grimmauld Place next week. You and Ginny can come and stay weekends.  Sweet talk McGonagall, okay? 

Can’t wait to hear what you’re doing. I guess assisting Hagrid, we all knows he needs the guidance. Ginny says hospital wing, Harry says library. No pressure, but I have a couple galleons riding on this. Ha ha!

Love you,

Ron

 

Hermione sighed. She wished she had ended it before she left, but it had been such a rush, and she couldn’t do it. That wasn’t even the whole truth. She was too much of a coward to break up with him in his family’s home. Molly and Ginny were going to be livid when she did it, and she just couldn’t face that yet. 

She had started making a plan to go to Grimmauld Place the week before her birthday. That would give her six weeks to figure out exactly what she wanted to say and how she would say it, and would ensure she wouldn’t have to lie to him on her birthday with potential gifts and declarations that might be forth-coming. 

She finished her meal quickly and went back to her room to answer the letters.

 

Dear Ginny,

Congratulations, Head Girl!  I am so happy for you and for the school!

I’ve already moved into my room at Ravenclaw Tower, and I love it. You will have a much larger one down the hall with a whole wall of windows and beautiful furniture. I know the changes seem extreme, but I think they will make more sense when you get here. Professor (Headmistress) McGonagall is doing everything she can to rebuild the school. I think it’s exciting to be a part of it.

Would you believe I am working in the dungeon to plan Potions classes until Professor Snape returns? I’m just getting started and am totally overwhelmed, of course, but as of today, I feel like I’m on the right track. Ask me again tomorrow.

I can’t wait for you to arrive to talk about all of this in person.

Until then I remain—

Your friend,

Hermione

 

She took a deep breath and thought for a moment before she started in on a new parchment.  She couldn’t handle the Ron response just yet, and had another letter to write anyway.

 

Dear Harry,

So, my job is Potions apprentice. I am working on plans, and that missing Advanced book of the Prince’s…is very much missed. I know it’s highly likely that it’s gone for good. I don’t really care to ever go in that room again, but I feel like I have to try. Any tips for gaining entrance? Any tips for gaining courage?

Sincerely,

Hermione

P.S. Love you and miss you.

 

And then she couldn’t put it off any longer.

 

Dear Ron,

Sorry, not working for Hagrid. Don’t worry, Ginny and Harry aren’t right either. In fact, you can make a case that you were closest: I’m Potions apprentice. I’m planning the course and am supposed to manage it until Professor Snape is able to return. Are you shocked?

Ron, to be serious for a moment, I want to thank you for everything you did in the past year. I couldn’t have made it through without you. You deserve the absolute best of everything, and I am so excited for you as you begin work next week. You are going to be an outstanding Auror.

Love,

Hermione

 

She read it through several times.  Everything in it was true minus a mountain of angst she would have to introduce soon.  She wondered how much he would be able to read between the lines. It had never been his strong suit.

 

*********

 

By the time Professor Snape had regained consciousness, she had outlined course guides through the Christmas holidays for each year in Potions. The Headmistress asked her to put them together in a format that she could take to professor Snape at St. Mungo’s. The panic was great enough that Hermione felt like she could attempt the retrieval instructions that Harry had sent her. She walked the hall on the seventh floor, expressing aloud just how badly she needed that book. On the third pass, the door appeared.

The room wasn’t as bad as she had imagined. The fire had been contained to one section, and she hoped with everything in her that the cabinet with the book had survived. She kept her eyes away from the spot where Crabbe died, she wasn’t exactly sad he was gone, but it had been such a horrific night.

After rifling through every manner of contraband, (more porn than Harry had mentioned) Hermione finally spotted a little piece of furniture, miraculously untouched by the fire, that looked promising.  She held her breath and lifted the lid.  Sherry bottle, sherry bottle, book.  She gingerly lifted the familiar volume and checked the inside cover. The inscription was there.  She tucked it under her arm, thanked the room, the Prince, and Harry sincerely and exited through the door.

Hermione spent the next four days cross-referencing, editing, and perfecting the plans. She had borrowed Professor Sprout’s guidelines to coordinate Potions lessons with what the students would be learning in Herbology. She added age-appropriate projects for each level, but also made sure that the subject was covered in a suitably rigorous way. When she couldn’t find anything else she wanted to improve, she cast a charm on the whole volume to make her handwriting look like it had come from a Muggle laser printer and handed the binder to Professor McGonagall.

“I didn’t put my name on it. I was worried how he might react in his current condition. I was never one of his favorite students.”

“I’m not sure Professor Snape has favorite students. Still, I think anonymity is likely wise, at least until he becomes used to the idea.”

Being finished with the Potions plans was a load off her mind akin to turning in a final paper.  She celebrated by making her shopping trip, first to Gringotts to look at her balance and see how little she could get away with withdrawing, then to Flourish and Blotts, where she picked her order and was astounded to hear the whole thing was paid for as a perk of being an apprentice.

She was able to floo directly to the Ravenclaw common room, a privilege that wouldn’t be possible once the other students arrived. 

Hermione opened the garment bag as soon as she was in her room. The new tie was striped green, yellow, and blue, with a larger red stripe in the center and grey stripes setting off each colour. She also had two grey wool pencil skirts, three crisp, white button-downs, and a beautifully tailored teaching robe with a red and gold ribbon rosette on the right shoulder. She covered her mouth with her hand at the elegance of her new clothes.

After she hung up the garment bag, she placed the new books on the shelves in her room nervously.  She had selected five history books for her independent study, which seemed much less ambitious a month ago.

She would be teaching Potions on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and taking her own classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She would have to work about fifteen hours each day. She decided she had better read her own material as much as possible in the last two weeks before school, especially while Professor Snape was in possession of the Potions plans, and she couldn’t obsess about editing those. She was kicking herself for not keeping an extra copy.

She decided to save history for leisure reading and dive into Herbology.  It would help her with Potions, and Neville was arriving later in the week to start his apprenticeship in the greenhouses.

Although Neville had attended school the previous year, everything had fallen apart before the seventh years could sit for their N.E.W.T.s.  He was going to work with Professor Sprout and refresh the material in his other classes periodically, so he could take his exams in the spring.  Like Hermione, he wanted to attend university. He had discovered that in order to be accepted into the school of Herbology there, he had to pass his Potions N.E.W.T., so he was going to be in her class.

She spent the next few days outlining _Mastery of Herbology_. She had done well in advanced, and it came back to her easily, partly because of all the Potions work she had been doing. She was so anxious to see Neville and get into the greenhouses.

He walked in the Great Hall right after breakfast, already dressed in his new uniform. She quickly excused herself from the table and ran to embrace him.

“Oh Neville, you are a wonderful sight!”

“Hermione! I’d heard you were already here. Gran wanted me at home until the last moment, or I would have come sooner.”

“Have you been to Ravenclaw yet to claim your room?”

“No, I came straight here. It’s all a bit weird, yeah?”

“It’s really not bad. I think you’ll like it. Luna wasn’t exaggerating about how nice the tower is.”

She was leading him toward the new quarters. 

“Do we have to solve a riddle? I’ve been trying to study a riddle book, but I’m terrible at it.”

“Professor Flitwick discontinued the practice to make sure everyone felt welcome. You just have to give the eagle the password. It’s bitter about the change, of course.” They had arrived to the door to the tower.

“Together toward our future,” she told the brass bird, which clearly rolled its eyes before the door clicked open. 

“I didn’t think I’d miss the Fat Lady,” Neville whispered.

“Well, from what I have observed the eagle doesn’t…” she mimed pouring a flask into her mouth, “so there’s that.”

She led him into the common room and showed him the boys’ wing.

“William Serrano from Ginny’s year has been named Head Boy, do you know him? Slytherin?” Hermione asked him.

“Not really.  He’s quiet. Hung with the Slytherin pack last year, but they all did.”

“Very few of them are returning, so I think Professor McGonagall wanted to encourage them to feel a part of everything.”

“Makes sense. Will they have enough for quidditch?”

“I think the Sorting Hat will see to that. Anyway, reserve the biggest room for him, and then you have your pick. There should be plenty of singles; there are on the girls’ side. There are also doubles and huge triples, so choose what you want.  I’m going to study down here, but I’d love to go with you when you’re ready to hit the greenhouses.”

“Of course, Hermione, I won’t be long.”

They spent the next three days in the large glass structures, Neville helping Professor Sprout prepare for the year, and Hermione studying the plants from the mastery book, as well as the ones she would be using in potions.

The day before the Hogwarts Express was due to arrive, the Headmistress plopped a big envelope in front of her after breakfast with no explanation except a rueful smile tinged with pity. Hermione pulled out the thick binder of parchment from it: her potions plans now liberally marked with red ink.

“Professor Snape is feeling up to work,” Hermione told Neville with a scared chuckle. Neville winced noticeably. “I’m off to delve through this. Enjoy your day at the greenhouse; I’m jealous.”

“Good luck, Hermione.”  He said before he placed his napkin on the table and followed Professor Sprout out of the hall.

Hermione didn’t allow herself to look at the notes until she was in the dungeon with all of her…well, all of his books set up in the workspace she had made, and until she had steeled herself with a generous cup of tea.

She scanned the first few pages and immediately recognized his writing style. It was very much like the marginalia in his books, she realized with relief. Most of his notes were ways to improve brewing specific potions. Where she had outlined the fun, age-appropriate potions she had added, he had written, _OBNOXIOUSLY TWEE_ , but otherwise, his notes improved the plans rather than rejected them. She took out her wand and hid his comments momentarily so she could copy the document, and then spent the rest of the day adding his suggestions into the new document. She left in her ideas. He could hate them, but she thought they were a good place to start. By the time he returned, she hoped they should be fully engaged in the curriculum.

She asked Professor McGonagall at dinner about his current condition.

“He’s driving the healers mad over there, so that seems a positive sign.  He’s not quite talking yet, but he’s up on his feet and can eat and drink although he’s still in a lot of pain. He would hex me for telling you this, of course.”

“And he doesn’t know that I’m the apprentice?”

“No, were the comments discouraging?” She asked sympathetically.

“Not at all, they were extremely helpful.”

“Really?” The Headmistress repeated dubiously.

“Truly. He doesn’t praise the plans, but he made helpful additions. I’m not joking.” Professor McGonagall’s face still looked doubtful.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“I think so. I’m mostly worried about teaching Monday. I’m actually excited about everyone coming back.”

“Enjoy your last few hours of peace,” her professor said.

She spent the next day and a half solving problems from _Mastery of Arithmancy_. She dressed in her new uniform hours before the crowd would arrive. She tamed her hair into a thick plait, braided into her scalp, contained and professional. She and Neville played cards in the late afternoon, and they decided to go down to wait at the entrance to the Great Hall forty-five minutes before the students to make sure they would be on time. The professors and seasoned staff arrived just before the students. Finally, they saw the first of the boats with Ginny and William in them, both looking sour and nervous.

“Oh dear,” Neville whispered.

“They’ll come around.”  They ran out to greet the students and help them with their bags.  Hermione grabbed on to Ginny, as her friend stepped out of the boat.

“I’ve missed you so much!” Hermione told her.

“Nice robe,” Ginny said in response.  She sounded like a five-year-old who had been told she had to eat her peas before she could have her pudding.

Neville shook William’s hand, and Hermione followed suit. William’s introduction was brusque.  Hermione loved the prominent green on the Slytherin version of the tie.

William and Ginny put their bags aside and got ready to help students off the boats, the oldest ones arriving first. Luna, Susan Bones, and Hannah Abbott were in the next boat, and Hermione saw familiar faces in the next ones as well.

She embraced Luna, who seemed in a much better mood than Ginny, although Hermione had never seen Luna ill-tempered. Luna had replaced her blue and silver rosette with a live salamander on a bright blue flower.

“Nice touch,” Neville complimented her sincerely.

“That’s Amanda,” Luna said dreamily. 

When the final boats arrived with the first years, it was clearly a smaller crowd, but there were many brave faces among the uncertain ones. Ginny and William led the procession into the Great Hall, and the sorting began.

McGonagall had wisely placed the Slytherins up front, and she had recruited Blaise Zabini to be in charge of the Slytherin dungeons with the fourth and fifth years until Professor Snape’s return. Blaise was as beautiful as ever and was an extremely impressive and encouraging figure for the new Slytherins. More than once, a look of horror crossed the faces of the newly sorted snakes, but the table pulled them in and handed them their tie and rosette with great flourish.  Hermione was reminded of Harry’s stories of Fawkes rising from his ashes.

Hermione was at the Gryffindor table with Ginny and Neville, and their new additions seemed universally thrilled with their assignment. When the Headmistress rose to speak, the crowd hushed immediately. The whole room was on edge.

She gave a speech of equal parts mourning, regret, victory, and advent of a new era.  She implored the students to give the new system a chance and reassured them that there would still be quidditch, and that she expected each house to fight valiantly for the coveted House Championship at the end of the year.  She also encouraged them to make friends with all of their classmates, regardless of where they had been sorted and told stories of inner-house bonds that included Luna’s famous lion headdress.

“We have all fought to be here today,” she said solemnly.  “I look into this crowd and I want to cry for the faces I don’t see, for the precious students and staff that we lost. But I also want to cry because we survived! We are rebuilding. Your being here right now is a triumph.  We have won.”

The room rose to its feet and gave a victory roar.

“So with that said, tuck in!”

Hermione could hardly sleep that night. She went over her opening speech again and again. She couldn’t eat a bite of breakfast; even tea was too much.  She was very happy to have the first years for her first ever class. She realized, though, that it was their first ever class, too, that she would be their very first Hogwarts teacher.  She left the table immediately to go pace in the dungeon and check the supplies for the umpteenth time.

Soon enough they walked in silently.  She realized this was probably the quietest they would ever be all year.

“Come on in, you may sit where you like.”

Professor McGonagall would be proud to notice that the four houses were scattered throughout the room.  There were sixty-seven students in total, which was not even half of Hermione’s entire first year, but it was a start.

“My name is Miss Granger, and this is Beginning Potions.”

She introduced her lesson, took them through the safety procedures and lab etiquette, and then led them through their first brew, a simple potion to alleviate mild pain. 

“All of you who successfully brew the potion will put your name on the bottle before I send them to Madam Pomfrey.” She had decided to have their first experience be one in which they all could win if they were successful. At the end of class, almost half of the potions were up to standard, and all but four were very close. She noted the four names silently to write down in her book so that she could observe them more closely next time. She assigned them one foot of parchment to write up what went right or wrong with their procedure today, and also an analysis of what it is used for. The hour flew by, and she took a deep breath before the sixth years filed in.

This class hadn’t had a chance to take their O.W.L.s at the end of their fifth year, so the Headmistress had opened the advanced classes to anyone with interest and who had shown competency. There were only fifteen who had opted for Advanced Potions.

She remembered every moment of her first advanced class with Professor Slughorn, and the ridiculous Felix Felicis competition against the Prince. She owned the Prince now. She decided instead on a much more complicated version of the potion the littles had just brewed. Madam Pomfrey had mentioned that her stores were bare, so the sixth years would complete a potion that could anesthetize a patient for a procedure that would be too painful to unless one was unconscious.

The students went straight to work, and by the end of class, every one of them had been successful. She instructed them how to bottle and assigned them a similar homework paper to the one she had given the first hour.

She ticked off hour after hour, skipping lunch to have a few moments to breathe and then finishing the day with the seventh years, eight in total, including herself. The class included Neville, Ginny, Luna, William, Hannah, Susan, and a Slytherin girl named Katrina Fitzgerald that Hermione only knew by sight.

“I not going to be teaching this class,” she told them immediately. “I’m just facilitating. I have Professor Snape’s notes, and he will take over as soon as he is back, which I’m told will be fairly soon.” The two Slytherins looked relieved; Neville looked terrified.

The first half of the year of Potions Mastery was theoretical; they wouldn’t get into the lab until after the Christmas break. They started in on chapter one together, and Hermione tried to deliver her intricately planned lecture while giving the illusion that they were working collaboratively.

She dragged herself to dinner and sat with Neville, Ginny, Luna, Hannah, and Susan. She missed Harry and Ron acutely for the first time since her arrival, and thought of her impending breakup.  Ginny was in a much better mood having survived the first day as well, and Hermione felt a pang for the future.

 

*********

 

The next two weeks flew by as the students settled in to the school routine.  Hermione was constantly working to keep up with her Potions classes as well as her own studies. She hadn’t cracked a history book yet, but she planned to reward herself with some history time at the end of September.

On Saturday morning the twelfth, she flooed from the Headmistress’s office with her permission to Grimmauld Place.  She and Ron had owled back and forth at least twice a week, but she hadn’t told him she was arriving.  He and Harry usually had a lie-in Saturday mornings and then went to a park where there were enough witches and wizards for a pick-up quidditch match. She walked up the stairs and tapped lightly on Ron’s bedroom door.

“Go ‘way, Harry, it’s too early,” she heard a mumble from behind the door.

“It’s me,” she said softly.

“’Mione!  What are you doing here?”  She heard him pad to the door, and then it opened to reveal a very sleepy, messy-haired Ron. He pulled her inside and then against him.

Oooooh, she thought. This is going to be torture. He felt so warm; really more like home than anywhere other than Hogwarts. She floundered for a second. What if he took her to bed and then they could talk, and she could just put this off indefinitely. But she couldn’t. None of this would go away. She knew what she had to do.

He started kissing her, and she put a gentle hand on his chest and pushed him away.

“Wha…?”

She walked to an armchair, moved a pile of dirty clothes and sat down.

“Ron, I’m so sorry.”

“For what? You’re scaring me, Hermione.”

“I can’t…We can’t...  I just…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t be with you…romantically any more.  I…I’m really sorry.” And big, baby tears started to fall down her face.

“What…what did I do?”

“Nothing! Nothing, Ron, it’s just…”

“What did _you_ do?  _Who_ did you…?”

“No one!  No, Ron, it’s nothing like that.” She took a deep breath and steeled herself.  “I’m not and I will never be the woman for you. I can’t be her. I just…can’t.”

“You don’t _want_ to be with me, you mean. You _can_ do anything you want to, Hermione,” he said angrily.

“Ron, you deserve someone who wants the same things you do!  I am not that person…”

“What do you mean? What do you think I want?”

“You want to be married to someone who can be home with you. You want children. You want someone to maintain a home. You want to raise a whole quidditch team. You need a partner who can devote as much time as you will to those things. You are going to be an incredible father, and your children will be so lucky to have grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and dream holidays at the Burrow. I am not the one who can give you this.”

“HOW DO YOU KNOW?” His voice thundered across the room. Hermione wished she had thought to cast a silencing charm.

“I know because the only time I am happy,” she broke off in wracking sobs.

“No, that’s not fair, Hermione. Finish your sentence,” his voice was now quiet and freezing cold.

She drew a shuddery breath. “The only time I’m happy is when I’m working. The only time I’m happy is when I put in sixteen-hour work days. The only time I am content is when I have worked myself out of coherent thought.” She looked at him through tears and continued quietly. “And I don’t want children, and I suspect I never will.”

“Just because your own family is fucked up, doesn’t mean…”

“It’s not that, Ron. Don’t you see, if I wanted the perfect family, I have that in you! I don’t want it! I don’t know why, but I don’t! I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve done me a favour. Now, excuse me, I’m going back to bed.” He turned his back to her.

“I AM sorry, Ron. I love you more than…”

“DON’T LIE! GET OUT!” He roared.

She opened the door, and of course Harry was standing right there.

“Hermione, what the hell?” He demanded.

“Please, Harry, don’t make me go through it again. Just let me go, please!”

“Hermione…”

“Just go to Ron, please. I’ll write you later, I promise. I’m sorry, Harry.”

She left as quickly as possible through the floo, hoping desperately that Professor McGonagall’s office would be empty, but no, there she was at her desk.

“Miss Granger, you’re back soon, what’s the matter, dear?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ll be okay.”

“Of course, let me know if I can help.”

Hermione walked briskly back to the tower to talk to Ginny before she received the inevitable owls coming to her from Grimmauld Place, but she ran into her on the way. Ginny was dressed for quidditch.

“May I walk with you,” Hermione implored.

“Of course, what’s wrong?” Ginny sounded concerned and Hermione took a moment to enjoy the care that Hermione knew would be short lived. They strode out the castle doors towards the Quidditch pitch.

Hermione went through the story, and Ginny halted half way through and stared at her incredulously.

“Have you lost your mind?” Ginny asked her.

“No.”

“It’s just the trauma of everything, Hermione. You’ll get better. Go back right now and make this right!  This is insane!”

“It’s not the trauma, Ginny. The trauma is why I’ve stayed with him as long as I have,” the truth spilled out of her like overflowing cauldron. Ginny stared at her for a few moments and then slapped her across the face.

“You’re a bitch, Hermione. I always knew it, but Ron softened you; made you more human.  He dodged a curse, didn’t he. I’m sure he feels gutted right now, but how fortunate he truly is.”

Hermione stared at her, mouth agape with one hand on her stinging cheek.

“Go inside; you look ridiculous, and I’m late for practice.” She spun on her heels and headed across the field.

Hermione spent the day in the dungeon working manically. She wasn’t hungry for dinner but didn’t want to worry the Headmistress. Ginny was sitting in Hermione’s usual seat, not that Hermione wanted to sit there anyway.  She found a spot at the front end of the table by herself. She ate her dinner without relish and then walked back to the dungeon and worked until midnight.

That Monday, Ginny withdrew from Mastery of Potions.

 

*********

 

Hermione’s nineteenth birthday was the next Saturday. She planned to spend the whole day in the dungeon finally treating herself to history. She expected nothing at breakfast, but at her new regular seat at the front, there was a book wrapped in brown paper with a red and gold tartan ribbon.  She opened it as an owl dropped a small package in her lap. The book was called _Sisters, Come Forth_ by Josephine Krueger. The Headmistress had inscribed the inside cover.

 

Hermione,

Thank you for all of your hard work.  I’ve known Professor Krueger since our student days here at Hogwarts, and I thought her work in feminist theory would be interesting to you.

Happy birthday,

Minerva McGonagall

 

 

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, she told herself.  She glanced to the head table where the head-mistress was watching her with a smile. Hermione held the book to her heart and smiled back.

She realized Luna and Neville were standing behind her.

“Here’s some lavender cream I made. It will keep fallooshes away.”

“Oh, Luna, thank you.”

Neville was holding a small, glass container with a little garden inside.  “This should do well in your room with very little care.  Luna said you get lots of light. Happy birthday, Hermione.”

“I love it Neville.” Hermione was almost never in her room in the daylight, but it would look very pretty on her bookshelf.

“Happy birthday, Hermione. Ginny won’t stay mad forever. I don’t see why you gave away such a lovely boy, though,” Luna said in her usual dreamy tone.

Neville gave her a look and then escorted her back to their end of the table.

“Thank you, Luna.  Thanks, Neville.” Luna gave her a friendly little smile over her shoulder.  Hermione sighed and turned her attention to the package on her lap. There was a little card attached to the top. 

 

Dear Hermione,

I can’t say I understand what you are thinking; I can only say that in my opinion you’ve made a terrible mistake, but that you’ll surely come to your senses.

In spite of recent events, you are my trusted friend, and I love you. Nothing will change that.

I found this necklace in a Muggle jewelry shop a couple weeks ago. I know you think about our last year as much as I do. You, Hermione, were with me every day. I couldn’t have survived without you. We have lost so many and so much. Please let’s not lose the three of us. 

Love,

Harry

 

She opened the present and pulled out a gold chain with a ruby set in gold and encrusted with a small onyx. It was a poppy. She put the clasp around her neck immediately and then cleaned up her breakfast plate, gathered her gifts and made it to the dungeon before she collapsed once again in sobs.

*********

 

Two weeks later, on a Thursday afternoon, she had finished her classes and was working at her desk in the supply area of the dungeon classroom. It was a high writing desk, and she sat on a backless, tall stool that kept her from nodding off in the late nights. She heard a door creak behind her: the door to the living areas of the dungeon that she had never seen open since the day she arrived in August. The students had a separate entrance down a charmed hall from the classroom.

She turned to the door, and there he was. His hair was shorter than she had ever seen it, and it had clearly been cut by someone who knew what he or she was doing. The right side of his neck from his ear down was extensively scarred. He wore his typical white shirt, tailored in the work-formal wizard style but open at the neck. The black trousers were still buttoned around his boots. But gone was the waistcoat, frock coat and cape-like robe. Instead, he wore an open, plain teaching robe, similar to hers that ended at his knees.

“What have you done to my dungeon?” His voice, so full of the familiar contempt, yet so raspy and forced, assaulted her from across the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**October 1998**

**Severus**

 

The first thing he noticed as he stepped into the dungeon was a thick plait attached to the back of a head working at a high desk. The hair was straining to be contained to the head and looked as if it would burst free at the slightest provocation. It was bound at the bottom with a small, grey ribbon that looked to be losing the battle.

His second observation was that the stores and his entire work space looked like a classroom in an unusually productive nursery school. Everything was in its perfect bin with a large, white label attached, from the tiniest bottle of frog tears to the largest cauldron.

“What have you done to my dungeon?” He asked incredulously to the person attached to the plait.

This prompted his third discovery. The plait belonged to Hermione Granger.

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will not murder Minerva McGonagall._

He breathed deeply.

“Professor Snape! Welcome back. I didn’t know…”

“What _is_ this?” He tried again.

“Sorry, Sir. What…?”

“Why, Miss Granger, does my work space look like a kindergarten?”

“Oh, I found your plans for the organization. Professor Slughorn…well, he left the space in quite a state. I tried to put everything back. The labels are just for the students. I can make them invisible,” she flicked her wand and the labels disappeared. “I can remove them,” another flick, “But I’ve found them very helpful when the students are gathering their materials. I posted guides by each shelf so they can narrow down their searches more easily.” She flicked her wand again and everything reappeared.

His rage was simmering just behind his eyes.

“But let’s just get rid of them,” she said quickly. Again with the wand, and again they disappeared.

He should have known. As soon as he received those obnoxiously overachieving plans, he should have known.

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will endure Hermione Granger._

“Where is the Potions timetable?” He said with as much patience as he could muster.

The girl scampered off the high stool and pulled a binder from the closest shelf. The schedule, written in that perfect script he recognized from the plans, was on the first page.

**Monday, Wednesday, and Friday**

9:00  First years

10:00 Sixth years (Advanced)

11:00 Fourth years

12:00 lunch

1:00 Third years

2:00 Second years

3:00 Fifth years (O.W.L.s)

4:00 Seventh years (Mastery-N.E.W.T.s)

 

There was no way his voice was strong enough to teach a four o’clock class.

“I work by myself in here,” he told her coldly.

“I’ll find another place,” she gathered up an enormous stack of books and charmed them to fit in a small satchel. “I’m so pleased you’re back, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said quietly as she scooted toward the door through the classroom. Then she stopped mid-stride and double-backed into the work space to a corner where a tea service was set up. She grabbed a large white mug with a blue H in swirly script on it and put it in the top of the bag. She smiled at him apologetically and exited once again.

He took the binder and went straight to the Headmistress’s office.

“Severus…” She started immediately.

“Hermione Granger.”

“I know…”

“Hermione Granger!?! You told me it was a Ravenclaw!”

“I most certainly did not! You assumed…”

“You didn’t correct me!”

“Severus,” she put her hand to her temple. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But has anything changed about her excellent performance, on which we agreed just yesterday?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Could we make it the point? It has been a dreadful day, not your return, that’s marvelous, but the rest of my day and this whole week…I have third year boys in MY tower that are not content unless at least one of them is beaten to a bloody pulp and lying in the hospital wing every night. Mr. Zabini is doing a remarkable job with your group, by the way. You should be fine in the dungeon. I’m not sure why Gryffindor Tower has stirred up every…”

Snape smirked at her.

“Yes, well,” she smiled ruefully at him. “Just try to work with Miss Granger.  I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“I’ll do what I can as I always do.”

“Thank you, Severus.”

“I have a problem with the timetable though,” he put the binder on her desk and turned to the first page.

“Of course you do. Everyone does. How Albus ever managed…”

“As a benign dictator, of course. My voice is still…problematic late in the day, especially if I’ve done any talking at all. Teaching three other classes—it’s not possible for me to teach this seventh year at four,” he pointed to the spot on the page.

The Head-mistress pulled out a huge master timetable from her desk and studied it against the potions schedule. “This is an easy fix. We can just switch the firsts and the sevenths. The first years have been starting and finishing early and the sevenths have been doing the opposite.” She pulled her wand and swished at the page and the changes were made at both places. “I’ll notify Miss Granger of the change. That was simple, Severus. If only they all were.”

“Thank you, Minerva, I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Yes, Professor.”

He went back to the dungeon to get a closer look at its condition. The classroom looked the same as always, perhaps tidier because she had left nothing on the desk at the front. He walked to the work space and studied the stores. She had organized them exactly as he had. The bookshelves were neat and accessible. The tea corner was a nice touch, he had to admit. His personal collection was exactly how he left it. He noticed that the Advanced book was now back where it belonged.

He glanced at the binder again to see what he was teaching in the morning. The seventh years were in the middle of a unit on potions for inorganic subjects. He could teach it in his sleep.  The sixths were going to start polyjuice.

Poor Miss Granger missed her favorite potion by one day, he chuckled to himself. He noticed she had his Defense timetable in the binder as well. Both of those classes were on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. If his voice held up, he would try to take on a few more Defense classes to ease the burden on Filius and Pomona.

He spent the rest of the afternoon inspecting the Slytherin portion of the dungeons.  He was not surprised to see the students in the common room bunched almost exclusively by house affiliation. The room was instantly silent when he walked through the door.

“Welcome back, Sir,” arose from the small Slytherin enclave. There were murmurs from the other groups.

“Thank you. I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to be housed in the best accommodations in the castle.”

There were hoots and cheers from the Slytherins and glares from many of the rest.

“I will be a consistent presence in the dungeon from now on. If you think you can get away with any untoward behavior, you…are…mistaken. If you have any problems with your school work, with your peers, with your teachers, with anything at this school, I expect you to inform me before you say a word to the Headmistress, is…that…clear?

Hushed “Yes, sirs” echoed throughout the room.

“Good. I will see you in the Great Hall promptly at six for dinner. That is in…seven minutes.”  He swept out of the room back to his quarters so he could make an entrance for his first meal back.

He took his old seat next to Pomona at the head table. Minerva had moved into the Headmistress’s place in the center, of course. The food was as good as the wine was rubbish, and he savoured his first non-Mungo’s meal in months. He could eat and drink comfortably now.  He glanced around the room, and just like in his common room, most students were eating with their fellow house members. The little ones and the oldest ones seemed to be the only exception, but he noticed that the Slytherin seventh years, including the Head Boy were eating with fellow Slytherins. Hermione Granger sat at the end of seventh years’ table, closest to the faculty, yards away from the others.

She was a teacher now and so above her peers. Arrogant swot. So superior. Insufferable.

 

*********

 

The morning after his Great Awakening, a middle-aged witch had breezed into his hospital room, waking him only a few hours after he finally managed to sleep. His mind was over-excited; he couldn’t keep up with all of the thoughts. He needed at least two more hours of rest. That was a lost cause.

“Severus! I’m Barbara Cooney-Gould. You can call me Barbie.”

_Not bloody likely._

“First thing we have to do is get you out of bed! Let’s see if those old legs still work.” Without waiting for a reply, she pulled the sheet covering his lower half back, grabbed his legs, and swung them over the bed.

At first he was too stunned to react, but he quickly fumbled for his wand.

“Yes, bring it. You’re going to need all the help you can get. Here, lean on me, and let’s see if we can get those feet on the floor.”

He was wearing an awful St. Mungo’s robe, mercifully to the ankle, but nothing was provided for under it. The universe detested him.

She pitched him out of the bed, forcing him to put some weight on his feet. His knees buckled immediately.

“Woopsie-daisy!  Here we go, lean into me, I can take it, you’re a skinny thing, aren’t you?”

_Let. Me. Die._

She steadied him against her and started walking to the door.  He had no choice but to try to keep up.

“That’s it, Severus! We’re headed to the day room to work. It’s three rooms down, we’re almost there,” she said as they exited his room. The hallway looked as if it were twenty blocks.

“One foot in front of the other. That’s great!” She was doing almost all the work. Every time he took a step, he thought he would surely crumple on the floor. She didn’t let him budge an inch.  After a walk that seemed to take half an hour, they finally reached their destination, and she helped him into a chair in front of a small table. He leaned in on it to support his upper half. She sat across from him and read through a folder of parchment she had somehow brought in with her.

“It says here you are refusing to take water by mouth. That is not acceptable, Severus. You must change that today. Say, ‘Today is the day I sincerely say I will drink a cup of water.’”

He looked at her as though she had asked him to run a marathon.

“Say it, Severus. Today is the day I sincerely say I will drink a cup of water.”

_I can’t talk, you utter moron._

“Say it.” She leaned across the table and took his face in her hands, she was perfectly calm but infuriatingly insistent. He tried to rip away, but her grip was too strong. “Say it; move your mouth. Today is the day I sincerely say I will drink a cup of water.”

He mouthed the ridiculous sentence just so she would take her hands off him.

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will drink a cup of water._

“Splendid! Let me fetch one.” She crossed to an area of the room with a little drink station and filled a teacup with water from a jug. “Here you are,” she put the cup to his mouth. He let the water trickle in and tried to swallow but the pain was too much. He spat most of it out.

“Pain? Let’s try this. She pulled a wand from her belt and cast a numbing charm at his throat.  “Try again.”

This time he could get the water down with great effort and a daunting amount of pain. The cup was still almost full.

“They still have a lot of work to do on your throat, Severus. You are very brave to drink this. It will get easier every day. Let’s try some more.” She cast another charm, and he took a swallow, more this time to quicken this process.

“Wonderful, Severus! They told me you are remarkable, but I had no idea!”

He tried to squeeze as much contempt as he could in a glare. It took the whole morning, but he finally got the damned water down. Then he had to walk back to his room. He slept the rest of the day.

Every morning was the same. Woken up by Barbara Cooney-Gould in the most discourteous way, walked to the day room, some insurmountable task put before him.

 

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will take all of my food by mouth._

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will make a noise from my throat._

 

As soon as he could say a word that would reach his ears, he tried legilimency again on Anabel.  He was no longer curious about what was in her head; he doubted the girl had an unexpressed thought. Still nothing. He tried it on Minerva when she was talking to a healer in the doorway and not paying attention to him. Nothing. He wasn’t brave enough to try it on Barbara Cooney-Gould, whom he now referred to in his head as Babs. He tried it in every variation he could imagine on Anabel every time she entered the room. It was no use.  

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will figure out how to communicate with people when I have no idea what is going on in their heads._

Babs had other plans.

 

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will shower and dress myself._

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will vocalize all of my vowel sounds._

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will make the “th” sound with my teeth and my tongue._

And on, and on, and on, day after miserable day. When he wasn’t in the day room with Babs, or enduring endless procedures on his throat and neck, he was reading back copies of _The Daily Prophet_ trying to piece together the events of the final battle and aftermath. Most of the stories involving him were absolutely mortifying. He wasn’t sure he could even show his face at Hogwarts with all the lovesick drivel they had printed, almost always free of context and placing him in the most pathetic light imaginable. The deification of Potter and his cohorts was nauseating to the point that it threatened his ability to take all of his food by mouth, and because he was terrified of what Barbara Cooney-Gould would require of him next, that was unacceptable.

Poppy and Minerva visited him almost every day, and when Minerva brought him the work done by the apprentice, he had his happiest day in hospital yet.  He spent the whole afternoon pouring over the plans and filling the margins with generous red ink.

The apprentice had obviously cribbed generously from his own plans and books, but she (and he was certain that this person was female, and most likely a Ravenclaw) had added her own ideas and methods as well. She had integrated Herbology at every level, something he and Pomona Sprout had talked about for years when Dumbledore was Headmaster though they had never followed through.

She had also added lessons in brewing potions that would be particularly interesting for specific age levels: simple pet remedies for the younger ones, broom speed enhancers for the second years, acne tonics for the third years. He waited to see if she was going to instruct the fifth, sixth, and seventh years how to brew contraceptives, but they were relegated to benign study aids. He strongly discouraged her from pursuing this kind of idiocy, but mostly he tried to fill in the gaps of her admittedly thorough lessons.

By the end of September, he could eat three regular meals, drink enough fluids to keep himself hydrated, and carry on a conversation for an hour. Babs declared him cleared for discharge with one weekly therapy session until he was completely cured. Poppy brought him his clothes to wear home, and he discovered that the high-necked shirts, waistcoats, jackets, and robes he had worn for years aggravated his injury to distraction.

Anabel told him that the first night he had been brought to hospital, his hair had been cut to keep it off his neck. It had grown back, and it bothered the injury still. He had been wearing it bound in the back, which was perfect for therapy but not what he considered appropriate for work. He hated to lose the concealment from his scars the old style would provide, but comfort overrode vanity. Anabel cut it so it lay against his jaw, still off-setting his appalling beak of a nose, but away from where the snake had ripped away his flesh. He cast a maintenance charm so it would stay at the right length.

Minerva brought him a new robe that was light and open.  When he saw his reflection in the glass doors at the front of St. Mungo’s on his way out with Poppy, he didn’t look at all like himself, which he found surprisingly liberating.

 

**********

 

Friday morning after his return, Miss Granger was in the classroom right after breakfast where she had once again eaten by herself, this time engrossed in a book. He tried legilimency on her just as a trial—maybe St. Mungo’s had some anti-legilimency charm, but no luck.

“I suppose you’re here to protest the schedule change?”

“Oh, no Sir, that’s fine. I need to talk to you about the Mastery class.”

He continued going over his notes on the inorganic chapter.

“Neville Longbottom is in the class, Sir.”

“How is that possible?  He didn’t even qualify for Advanced.”

“That’s true; I’ve been trying to help him catch up. He wants to go to university, Sir, in Herbology. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Neville is exceptionally talented in Herbology.”

Pomona hardly talked about anything else.

“In order to be admitted into the Herbology program, he has to have at least an Acceptable N.E.W.T. in Potions.”

“Is he capable of that?”

“I’m not sure. He’s holding his own so far, but I have no idea how he will do when we start brewing in January.”

It was more candor than he expected.

“He’s not hopeless, sir. He obviously lacks confidence…”

He had somehow managed to kill Nagini, if the _Prophet_ had reported that correctly.

“I just wanted to let you know so…”

So he wouldn’t eviscerate the boy the moment he walked through the door.

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will not traumatize Neville Longbottom._

“Thank you, Miss Granger.”

“I’ll see you in class,” she turned towards the door.

“You may wait here. You don’t have to skulk outside my door for fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she said and sat in a desk on the second row and pulled out her book to study.

The rest of the class straggled in. He was pleased to see the two Slytherins. Mr. Longbottom looked terrified.

“Don’t muck about. Have a seat. We’re already irreparably behind.”

It wasn’t true, but he looked at Miss Granger to see her reaction. She was still glued to the book, but she had taken out her quill and parchment to take notes.

He went through the material step by step, asking question after question that they were adequately prepared to answer. He wasn’t blown away by their overwhelming brilliance, but she had obviously taught them something. She stayed silent, letting the others handle the questions, not even volunteering when they were stumped. He stepped up the difficulty, baiting her, and still her hand stayed by her side. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of calling on her unsolicited. He asked his toughest question yet and called on Longbottom instead. Her head shot up from the book.

Longbottom stumbled over his words but gave an answer that wasn’t terrible. Snape couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Miss Granger, can you tell us the three properties one can observe to evaluate veneer absorption?

“Beading, frosting, gas emission,” she said without hesitation.

“That’s correct.”  He continued the lesson and tried to ignore her. He found her current behavior more irritating than when she would wave her hand in the air for the whole hour. He assigned them an essay three times longer than the plan called for. It improved his mood a bit.

As they were leaving he called to her quietly.

“Miss Granger, do you realize that a portion of your grade is evaluated on class participation?”

“Yes, Sir. I was hoping the others would take the lead today. I wanted them to show you what they have learned so far.”

“And how do you think they did?”

“It wasn’t a disaster.”

He snorted at her assessment.

“You are a student in this class now, not the teacher. I expect you to behave as such from now on, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

She walked out with slumped shoulders as the sixth years filed in. Most of them addressed her in a friendly way as they passed. 

“Silence!” he ordered and began his polyjuice unit.

 

*********

 

He spent the weekend in his quarters in the dungeon. The Headmaster’s rooms had never felt like home, and he was quite pleased to be back. He spent a few hours Saturday restoring the place to exactly how he liked it and caught up on reading until dinner, which he had an elf bring in. He took his food out to his favorite spot, a café table in his little garden. With a flick of his wand, The Smiths filled the garden, Johnny Marr played into Snape’s gut, and Morrissey plaintively sang out his angst. Snape opened a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.

_I am the son_  
_And the heir_  
 _Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar_  
 _I am the son and heir_  
 _Of nothing in particular_

He lit a cigarette after dinner to enjoy with his wine. He inhaled deeply and held it there for a moment before breathing out the smoke.

_Today is the day I sincerely say I will ruin weeks of therapy with one cigarette._

_There's a club if you'd like to go_  
_You could meet somebody who really loves you_  
 _So you go and you stand on your own_  
 _And you leave on your own_  
 _And you go home and you cry_  
 _And you want to die_

When he had finished the bottle and sadly tamped out the last of the ashes, he had the brilliant idea to owl a married witch who lived in Prague, and who had been his occasional lover in the last two years. He hadn’t seen Alla since the situation had become dire here. Suddenly he was very much missing her company. He suggested meeting during the Christmas break. She was coldly beautiful, and her husband had to be a hundred years old. He went to bed thinking about their last encounter and stroking his cock for the first time in months.

On Sunday night he was returning some library books Madam Pince had sent him while he was in hospital. Miss Granger had set up one of the corner tables as a work station. Her hair was out of its straining plait and was tied into a cascading bunch of curls at the top of her head. She had a young student he didn’t recognize next to her, and she was clearly helping the boy with his Potions assignment.

Across the room, a group of fifth year Hufflepuffs had pushed two tables together and were talking and laughing loudly enough that Snape realized Granger must have cast a silencing charm around herself and her student. The Hufflepuffs quieted immediately when they saw him, but he strode over to their tables.

“You have the most exquisite common room in the castle; I suggest you take this…gathering there.  Five points for each of you from Hufflepuff…that’s an even…” he tallied quickly in his head, “eighty-five points.”

 

*********

 

He taught four Defense classes and only the two high level Potions classes, so logic would dictate that he would take the Defense classroom as his work space. He certainly had used it that way the year he had exclusively taught Defense and Slughorn had been in Potions. This year, though, he was spending more and more time in the dungeon. He moved his small Defense library to his dungeon work space bookshelf that she had restored for him. He had always graded student work at the classroom desk, but she was using it during the afternoons when she taught, so he transfigured a similar desk back there and set it up according to his preferences.

Without trying, he overheard her classes on the afternoons she taught. She had adequate control over the students although he thought she allowed them to be louder than was necessary. She asserted her authority without hesitation and had obviously prepared--perhaps over-prepared--her lectures as they had more of a rote than conversational quality. Having the first years in the late afternoon was a considerable challenge, and he felt slightly guilty that he had imposed this on her. 

On his second Friday back, he was working in his little space when he heard her angry voice ring out above the chaos of first year brewing.

“Mr. Faircloth, sit here. Mr. Cassidy-Mitchell, there.”

 He walked over to the classroom door to observe more closely.  Two young boys were seated in the front row, heads down. The rest of the class were gawking from the lab area.

“What were you thinking, gentlemen?”

There were some indistinct mumbling from the guilty parties.

“I’m sorry?”

“We were jus playin’, Miss,” one of the boys volunteered.

“Do you have _any_ idea how dangerous some of the substances we work with here are?  That you think ‘just playing’ is an excuse to behave entirely inappropriately in my classroom tells me that not only do you lack the maturity to be in this class, but that you have also failed to study the material thoroughly enough to have any understanding about what we are doing. I am taking twenty-five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Faircloth, and twenty-five points from Slytherin, Mr. Cassidy-Mitchell. In addition, you will serve detention with me in the library Monday night at seven o’clock, at which time we will discuss the procedures of this class until I am satisfied that you are capable of attending it. Is this clear?”

The two nodded silently. 

“Miss Granger,” Snape called from the door, and she looked over, seemingly bracing herself for a lecture from him in front of the class.

“These…students,” he paused to express his disgust, “committed their offense here. They should serve their detentions here as well.”

“Yes Sir, thank you,” she looked palpably relieved.  “You heard the professor,” she addressed the boys again. “I will see you here Monday.” She left them in the desks and tried to salvage the lab for the rest of the class. She held them a few minutes over, but they managed to finish and clean their areas before they went skipping out of the room to the weekend.

She meticulously put away all of the materials and started cleaning all of the work spaces as soon as the children had left.

“You know the house elves will take care of this,” he told her to wind her up a bit. She stiffened; he smirked behind her back.

“They deep clean it, but I like to leave it fairly tidy for them.”

“Suit yourself.” 

She continued her work and then started gathering five classes worth of scrolls to mark, along with the massive collection of books that she toted in her small bag.

“Miss Granger…”

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you would like to keep your things in here, you may. You may set up your desk or use the one in the classroom for grading.”

“Are you sure I won’t bother you?”

“If you are a nuisance, I won’t hesitate to let you know.”

“I like to start grading before dinner and then come back and finish after. I’ve been setting up in the library, and I can do that again, if you would rather me not work in here in the evenings,” she told him.

“You may return after dinner.” He liked to finish all of his marking the same day as well.  From what he could glean from his colleagues, most put it off until just before the next class. He was fairly certain Slughorn had done no grading at all. 

 

*********

He became used to having her around. Her white and blue H mug returned to the tea corner. She sat for hours at the classroom desk, face pinched with disappointment, wand flying in front of the page, red marks appearing liberally on parchment after parchment. They would go to the Great Hall for dinner by different routes and both be back working shortly after. Aside from wishing him goodnight when she finally finished, they were silent.

The last weekend of the month was both Halloween and the first Hogsmeade trip. That Friday night he was puttering in the lab instead of grading, resentful of missing his precious solitude due to having to be a chaperone for both the trip and the fourth and fifth year Halloween party that Mr. Zabini had so helpfully planned during his tenure. Now Zabini was off on a trip to Asia and Snape was left with the gits. He was already plotting to spike the pumpkin juice with contraceptive potion and dreamless sleep.

He was just about to call it a night when he heard yelling and angry footsteps in the classroom, and he reached the door just in time to see a photo in a glass frame in the air flying toward him.  He drew his wand a quarter second too late as it smashed into the wall at his right. He quickly realized he was not the target. Ginny Weasley paused to stare at him and then resumed screaming at Granger, and it looked like the frame had flown through her hands in a fit of fury.

“I certainly don’t want it; I don’t care what you do with it! Actually, no. I can tell you exactly where I would like you to put it!” The Weasley girl’s face was as red as her hair.

He started to prepare his tired voice to order her out when Granger addressed the girl coolly.

“This is completely inappropriate, Ginny. If you wish to speak to me about matters not pertaining to school, you may do so elsewhere. As you are no longer a student in Potions, you don’t have a reason to be in this room. I am taking thirty points from Gryffindor for disrupting both me and Professor Snape, and I will consider speaking to the Headmistress about whether you have the temperament to be Head Girl. You may leave now.”

Ginny Weasley stared at her for a few moments but turned around and left muttering, “Miserable hag.”

“I am so sorry, Professor,” Granger looked appalled. 

He picked up the photograph at his feet gingerly, avoiding the glass shards. It showed the Weasley tribe plus Potter and Granger. Fred Weasley was not in the picture, so Snape concluded it was recent. Ron Weasley was standing behind Granger with his arms around her and their fingers entwined.  He was bent over her, kissing her cheek and then looking toward the camera again and again. Granger’s medium brown hair was down and blowing slightly in the breeze.  The sunlight picked up a dozen colors in her curls, and it contrasted dramatically with all of the redheads and Potter’s black hair. 

She cast a cleaning spell instead of one to repair the frame. The glass and metal flew into the bin. 

“I find,” he said as he handed her the photo, “that taking a nice, round fifty points is most satisfying.”

She looked at him, astonished for a moment, as if she expected him to reprimand her. Then she laughed and sank into the chair behind the desk.

“I am _so_ sorry, how mortifying,” she said and tucked the photo into a book.

“I don’t think she’ll be back,” he said in what he hoped was a wry tone.

“I’ll hex her if she tries!”

He was genuinely curious about the story here but felt that it was both inappropriate and beneath him to ask.

“I think I’m finished for the night,” he told her.

“I still have some marking, if it’s all right for me to stay here a while.”

“Of course. Do you have to be a chaperone at Hogsmeade tomorrow?” He inquired.

“No, and I’m looking forward to quiet in the dorm. The Headmistress gave me a book for my birthday, and I am finally going to start reading it.”

 “Enjoy your book, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, Professor. Have a good weekend.”

_Not likely_.

He retired through the back door.

 

_See I’ve already waited too long_

_And all of my hope is gone_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEq8DBxm0J4


	6. Chapter 6

**November 1979**

**Severus**

 

The university had a name, but almost everyone just called it _university_. It was as far from Hogwarts as it is possible to be on an island, and it was nestled in between two similar Muggle institutions. Students and businesses that appealed to them were everywhere: cafes, clubs, student pubs, record shops, and bookstores lined both sides of the street.  Most students at Snape’s university only frequented the wizarding businesses, but he walked freely in them all. 

He was studying potions, but he also took classes in herbology and arithmancy, and he was already dreading graduation and having to leave the place.

Every Saturday morning, he would take his breakfast at a small Muggle café that provided newspapers from all over the UK. He sought out the Cokeworth paper and would scan the obituaries to see if his father had died at last.

He didn’t see that name, but one did appear a Saturday morning in late November that made his pulse rise up his body and settle behind his eyes. Henry Evans had died that week. His service would be Tuesday.

Lily had lost her mother half-way through sixth year, and Dumbledore had given her special permission to return home frequently on weekends to be with her father.

Snape had last seen Mr. Evans at their Hogwarts graduation. Snape’s own mother had died in March of that year, and no one had shown up to see him graduate. Mr. Evans had gone out of his way to include him in the family plans, in spite of Lily being more than a little cool to Snape and Potter always being about. Mr. Evans had taken a picture of them—Snape in green and Lily in red for the occasion--that Snape had used as a bookmark since.

Mr. Evans had always treated him kindly. He was the only man that had ever done so consistently and without an ulterior motive. During the whole summer between fourth and fifth year, Snape’s mother was ill, and his father was either trying to hold onto his job or passed-out drunk, and the Evans family provided Snape with his only hot meals. Mr. Evans had asked long, detailed questions about what life was like at Hogwarts for him, and how being a Slytherin was different from being a Gryffindor. After the rift between Snape and Lily, Mr. Evans had always greeted him as if nothing had changed, and treated him as if he were a valued person.

Snape decided he was going to the little village to pay his respects. He probably wouldn’t stay for the service, as he had no desire to see Lily’s husband, but he was signing the guestbook and leaving some flowers.

The morning of the funeral, he transfigured his clothes into what he hoped was an appropriate outfit for a funeral in a Muggle church: black trousers, white button down shirt with pressed collar, and a skinny black tie.  He had bought a pair of second-hand Doc Martins that were his current prized possession, and he thought they looked fine with the rest of his attire. He transfigured a heavy robe into a charcoal grey short overcoat with a black scarf. His hair was longer than it had ever been, and he secured it with a band at the nape of his neck.

He apparated from school to a dark alley in Cokeworth he had used before. The little Church of England was a mile from there, but the walk would give him time to convince himself this had been a good idea. He stopped at a Muggle flower shop and bought a small bunch of winter-anemic looking blooms wrapped in green paper. He revised his plan into stopping in the back of the church, putting his name in the book, and dropping off the flowers there if there was a place or walking to the Evans’s house and leaving them there if not. His chief concern was not being noticed by Potter.

The church was on top of a hill and visible for blocks before he was actually close.  All of the Muggle weddings and funerals were held there although he didn’t know of anyone under seventy-five who attended Sunday services. His paternal grandparents had been religious and had therefore disowned his family. They died when he was a small child anyway. He found churches fascinating.

As Snape climbed the hill he could see the funeral workers at a spot in the yard, which he assumed would be Mr. Evans’s resting place. He hadn’t attended Mrs. Evans’s funeral although he had thought about it. Lily wasn’t speaking to him, and she had already taken up with Potter. He was angry with himself that he hadn’t attended anyway, and he was determined to not repeat his mistake.

The service had already started when he entered the little church from the side door, hoping to be able to glance into the sanctuary unobserved and see Lily. The book was right in front of him, and he took the Muggle pen in hand. The ball at the tip wouldn’t cooperate and he made a mess of the first few words before the ink started flowing.

 

Rest in peace to an admirable man and father.

Severus Snape

 

Maudlin, but he hoped appropriate. 

He realized he was at the wrong angle to see the family in the front pew, but the coffin was stark and had a small arrangement of orange flowers on it. He very quietly crossed the door to the other side of the foyer and immediately saw the side of Lily’s face, her head almost touching her chest. Petunia was sitting beside her next to an appalling looking man. There was no sign of Potter. Snape felt his pulse quicken, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. As silently as possible he entered the small sanctuary and eased into a pew in the back, opposite of Lily so he could watch her.

Where the hell was her husband?  He took out his wand at his side facing the wall, focused on Lily and whispered _legilimens_. He was almost knocked back with grief. She didn’t know how she would go on. She blamed herself. She regretted not having visited last week, every week since she had married. She was furious with someone, but Snape didn’t think it was Potter. He plunged into this strain. It was…he couldn’t get a name, but it was someone who was Potter’s superior in whatever task he was involved in. That was very murky. She had tried repeatedly to contact her husband but had been told it was impossible. She had broken down in front of a floo, pleading with the man to tell James she needed him. The man had told her he was very sorry, but it was not going to happen.

Snape removed himself guiltily though glad he knew the situation. He would be on his guard for Potter to burst in and save the day, at which point Snape planned a very hasty exit.

The reverend or minister or priest or whatever he was paused just then for the congregation to greet their neighbors, and Snape was relieved no one was sitting around him. He did recognize a few people. The walk from his house to Lily’s was about fifteen blocks, and people spent the summers outside as much as possible. He realized he had never seen most of these folks outside their gardens.

Then Lily saw him. She caught a quick breath and seemed to be shocked. She put her hand over her mouth and tears flowed down her face. He gave her a little smile he hoped wasn’t awful and diverted his eyes. He was too affected by the contact to enter her head again.

At the end of the service, the coffin was carried out with the family shuffling behind it to the yard, and the congregants followed. There was a short burial service; Snape hung back a distance leaning against a tree, and then the loathsome man, presumably Petunia’s husband, invited them all back to the home for a meal. Lily broke away from the group and headed towards him. She was wearing a long, camel colored coat, with a few inches of brown and grey plaid flannel skirt showing below, and light brown high-heeled boots. Her hair shone brilliantly in the winter sun. She looked rather exotic in her Muggle clothes, as he guessed he did, too.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she breathed at him and grabbed his upper arm for...support? Comfort?

He handed her the flowers.

“I…” He couldn’t discern her feelings and was kicking himself for not trying to figure it out in the church after he saw her. He was useless at determining people’s thoughts based on their faces and words.

“Thank you, Sev. Please come back to the house. I have to put out the lunch, but I want to talk to you, okay, please?”

“Of course…”

“I have to go with Tunie and Vernon, that’s her husband; he’s awful, but I’ll see you?”

“Yes, go.”

She leaned in then and pressed the side of her face against his and he awkwardly put his hand on her back before she turned and rejoined her sister and brother-in-law.

He decided to walk the long way past his house, so he wouldn’t be too early at the Evans’s place and be stuck with awkward conversation for longer than necessary. He had been back the summer before to check on his father, but he had only stayed a few minutes—long enough for the bastard to start in on everything disappointing about his son. He wasn’t worried about seeing his father this time. He was either at work if it was a good day or passed out in the sitting room in front of the telly if it was a bad day.

The house looked as shabby as ever, especially in the early winter. He glanced up to his old bedroom window and shuddered a bit with cold, bad feelings.  He turned to make the familiar trek that in his childhood always heralded happiness from misery. All of the familiar houses and shops looked more dismal and smaller, but he attributed that mostly to the seasonal change and his growth. His hands were crammed into the pockets of his odd coat, and he wondered if he ought to stop for a smoke. He decided he’d rather arrive at her house not smelling like an ashtray.

The difference between her street and his was stark. It’s amazing what a few more quid in the bank and a bit more hope can do for a neighborhood. There were even some Christmas decorations out, even though it was four weeks away.

He walked up her front steps and was wondering if he should knock when the door opened, and an elderly woman he vaguely recognized brought him in.

“Welcome, Dear. I haven’t seen you in years.”

He had no idea what to say to that, so he took the hand she offered and shook it and looked for a corner to occupy. There was a chair by the far window away from the small crowd in the sitting and he gratefully took it. The conversation was coming loudly from the kitchen anyway.  A booming voice that Snape recognized from earlier as the brother-in-law was holding court.

“But Mrs. Thatcher will straighten it all out, you can count on that! I would be terrified bringing a baby into this country if it weren’t for her getting control over that lot!”

“Oh, Vernon!” came a simpering voice that Snape knew as Petunia’s. “Of course the baby will be fine with you as his father!”

He could see Petunia through the doorway of the kitchen holding a large tray. She was wearing a black suit similar in style to the ones the new Muggle Prime Minister wore. Her hair was shorter than he had ever seen it, and it curled around her ears. She looked at least thirty-five. She turned with the tray at the door and saw Snape for the first time. Her mouth dropped open.

“What are _you_ doing here?” She asked him in an outraged tone.

“Who is it?” bellowed her husband.

“No one, Dear, an old neighbor from when we were kids.”

The husband practically shoved her aside to get through the door. He looked at Snape and his already tiny eyes became even smaller.  He waddled across the room and put out his hand.

“I’m Vernon Dursley, did you know Henry?

“Severus Snape. Yes.” Snape shook the man’s doughy hand though he wouldn’t have preferred to just stare him down.

Petunia was half hidden behind her husband. “He’s one of _her_ lot,” she whispered, saying the word _her_ as if it were a sore in her mouth.

“The lunch is for family and close friends only,” Vernon said in an unctuous, reprimanding tone that made Snape’s stomach turn. He reflexively reached for his wand and then wondered if he were mental. There was nothing threatening about these people. Still, he didn’t wish to spend any more time here. He would have to be satisfied with his encounter with Lily at the churchyard.

“Give Lily my condolences,” he said sincerely, “And congratulations to you two,” he added as sardonically as he could manage.

He strode across the room and was out the door and to the sidewalk in moments. If he hurried, he would be back in time for his afternoon lab. He was at the end of the block before he heard the clacky sound of boots running toward him.

He didn’t stop or turn, but instead of taking a left and heading for the apparition point, he kept straight and contiued toward a pub he had been in once before. By the time he opened the door she was right behind him, and he made sure the door didn’t hit her in the face. He walked to the bar and she followed.

“Two pints,” he told the man behind it.

“Two whiskeys,” she said, digging through her coat pockets.

He placed a hand on hers and gave the man enough to cover all of the drinks. He took the beers and spotted a table in the back corner. Joy Division was playing, and snooker was on the telly behind the bar.

She sat across from him and neither one said anything. She took her coat off. She was wearing a forest green V-neck jumper over a white turtleneck. He pulled out his red box of American cigarettes and his metal Muggle lighter he had stolen from his father years ago and now used more frequently. He offered her a smoke, and she accepted. He lit hers and then his own and took a deep drag. He pulled a tobacco leaf particle from the end of his tongue and looked at her.

“Mrs. Potter.”

“Severus, don’t…”

“That is your name, correct?”

“Don’t be hateful, please. I can’t take it today.”

He felt worse instantly.

“Sorry.” He drank half the whiskey in his glass and took a long pull from the beer. “So Petunia is…”

“Yes. She just found out. She’s due in early summer.”

“She’s not much older than we are. Can you imagine?”

Lily just looked at him with a neutral expression that, unsurprisingly, he couldn’t read. “At least she’ll have something to do all day,” she said.

She was jealous of her sister. She wanted to be pregnant, too. He clutched his wand in his hand by his side and said the word in his head, entering hers.

She was being careless with contraception, and she felt guilty about it because Potter did not think they were ready to be parents, but she was home alone all the time. She was restless and bored and unfulfilled. They had a small flat that took her no time to maintain. She had a magical kitchen and had to put almost no effort into preparing their meals. She wanted to have a job like Potter’s, but she was being kept at home and given token projects now and then to placate her.

Snape drank his beer down feeling guilty about the invasion and devastated for her.

“Please will you tell me all about university! I’m so jealous I can hardly see straight, and I want to hear every detail,” she pleaded with him.

He saw it was true. He got out of her head but left a portal so he could get back in easily if he was in trouble again.

“It’s a dream, Evans. What can I tell you?”

“That you’re miserable,” she teased him.

“It’s awful.” He deadpanned.  “Actually, it’s been everything…everything I’d hoped it would be. It’s not at all like Hogwarts; there are people from everywhere, and you’re divided by your subject and not…”

“By what a hat thinks?”

“Yes. It’s also in the middle of everything, so you’re not isolated at school. And the professors… You would love it, Evans.”

He had drained his drinks, and she wasn’t far behind. He waved for the man. “Two more?” He asked Lily.

“Why not? I can’t go back there.”

“What a nightmare.” He waved four fingers at the man behind the bar.

“You don’t even know the half of it, Severus. Since the phone rang last week…”

He looked at her, surprised that they had a phone in their flat, and his look to her must have made that clear.

“It’s the best way to keep up with my family.”

Of course.

“Anyway, it rang early in the morning, and it was Petunia, hysterical. Dad wasn’t there at work, and since it was the first time he had just not turned up, you know, no calls or anything, his office tried to get in touch with him and found Petunia’s number. She went to the house and found him. He had died in his sleep. We didn’t even know he was sick, but we found out he had been seeing a doctor for his heart. Petunia hadn’t told him about the baby yet, and somehow that has become the biggest tragedy of the day,” she was obviously holding back tears. “James is away; can’t be reached, according to the bastards.”

“What bastards?”

“The usual ones.” It was clearly all she was going to say on the subject.

“I’m really sorry, Lily, about your dad. And I’m sure Potter will kick a collection of arses when he finds out,” he said charitably.

“Thank you. My dad liked you very much,” she said softly,

Severus knew it, but it still made him feel good to hear. He wondered if he should take her hand and try to comfort her, but he was too scared. It was hot in the pub, and he finally took his coat off and laid it next to him. He put his hand on the table as an offering. She could take it or not. She slid hers in and covered it with her other hand and twisted them about slowly. She stopped and laid his hand on the table, wrist side up. She had seen the edge of the mark. She put her finger on it and caressed the bit that was showing.

“Sev, why would you let them…”

“I don’t want to talk politics with you, Evans,” he said lightly.

“It’s not politics, Severus! It’s a fight between what is right and what is…evil. Don’t smirk at me!”

“Good and evil, Lily? Really? Black and white; no shades of grey at all, right?”

“Don’t be so naïve, Severus. It’s not Gryffindor versus Slytherin! Don’t you understand? It’s truly about whether or not I have the right to exist!”

The bartender put the drinks down, Snape paid him, and took a long drink from the whiskey first and then the beer.

“I wouldn’t be associating with them if that were true,” he told her as quietly as he could above the music.

“Then they have you fooled. It’s life and death, whether you can see it or not, Death Eater.” She said the last bit as a point, he thought, not as an insult.

“So much propaganda…”

“How can you believe…how can you think that having a race of pure-bloods makes any sense? You’re a scientist, Sev!”

“A scientist!” He spat back at her. “Like I’m one of those Muggle university gits!”

“You know what I mean!”

He noticed she was matching him drink for drink.

“You understand genetics enough to know that breeding only pure-bloods is potentially disastrous! Are you going to be their potions gent…their Mengele that’s going to figure out what to do when half of the next generation is born with blood disorders and hip dysplasia?”

“Mengele? Really?” He took out two more cigarettes, lit them both in his mouth and passed her one. He let his hand linger on hers for a moment before she put the cigarette that had just been in his mouth into hers and drew a long breath looking into his face. He had been suspended at half-mast since she took his hand, and his cock suddenly was straining against his trousers.

“Severus, please just be careful. And if you decide that they’re a bunch of wankers, leave and don’t even look back.”

“I promise I will.”

“Good.” She drew deeply into her cigarette and looked at him with a smile on the other half of her mouth. Her eyes finally had some spark in them, and if he were standing, his knees would have buckled at the intensity of her look.

“Tell me about your life, Sev. Do you have a girlfriend? I bet you do. The university look is working for you, even in its Muggle incarnation,” she waved a hand at his outfit. “Your hair looks cool, too.”

“No girlfriend.” He had snogged a couple girls at the clubs, but it hadn’t gone further yet.

“You will soon. She had better be nice to you.”

“Lily…” he said mournfully wanting to pour his heart out with everything he regretted.

“Don’t, please. I’m trying not to cry. This is the longest I’ve gone without crying in days, and I don’t want to start up again.”

He just took her hand again and looked at her as they finished their drinks.

“I’m going to need the toilet,” she said matter-of-factly.

“They’re back here,” he stood up, leaving their coats, leading her by the hand but staying in front of her so she wouldn’t see the bulge in his trousers. He waited for her outside the ladies’ room.

When she emerged in a few minutes, she looked at him in a way he couldn’t fathom. She backed him up against the wall and put her mouth on his. He quickly cast a concealment charm and then wrapped his arms around her. He gently prodded her mouth with his tongue, and she let it in and responded with her own. She tasted deliciously of their drinks and cigarettes.

It was almost an out of body experience for him. He had dreamed about it for so long, and he couldn’t believe it was happening. He opened his eyes to confirm it was her, auburn hair, freckles, all still there. She was pushing her body against him, and her boots made them almost the same size, so his cock was rammed against her pubic bone.

He carefully slid his hand up to caress her breast through her jumper. He could feel her nipple harden through the layers, and she moaned into his mouth. This was going to be more than he could handle very soon, he thought, and just then she put her hand on the front of his trousers and rubbed his cock. He immediately came in his pants with a noise between a scream and a high-pitched wail. Mortifying.

“Sorry,” he said, and she immediately burst into tears. He couldn’t help himself; he got back into her head.

Guilt. James. Guilt. James. Regret.

He removed himself from the wall and her brain and walked back to the table picking up their coats. She put hers on amid wracking sobs. He wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck.

“I’ll walk you home,” he told her as soon as they were outside the pub.

“I can’t go back there. I’m going back to my flat,” she said through the crying.

“Okay. Where do you…”

“I usually apparate in and out of the back garden. Where do you?”

“There’s an ally over here that’s completely hidden from the road. I’ll show you.”

They walked in silence the four or so blocks. He put his hand on her back lightly when they got there, and she flinched. He couldn’t remember feeling so miserable.

“Are you okay to…it can be tricky when you’re…impaired.” He told her quietly.

“I’m not too drunk to apparate, Severus.”

“Lily, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. Thank you for being here. I’m sorry I messed it all up.”

“You didn’t.” He took her into his arms for the briefest of moments, and then she disappeared with a pop. He collapsed at the waist and allowed himself to feel awful for a minute. He fought back his own tears. Then he disappeared into the dusk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVvoQIdD80U


	7. Chapter 7

**December 1998**

**Hermione**

 

She had started preparing for exams six weeks prior to the tests, but she was still nervous about every one of them. Exams as an instructor were much easier; she had made the outlines for them in August, and as she had stuck faithfully to her plans, so she didn’t need to change much. She was very curious about what Professor Snape would do with the Mastery of Potions test she had written months ago.

She enjoyed passing out the exams and watching the students take them. Once they were in a rhythm, she allowed herself to study a bit although she worried she would become wrapped up in her own work and the students would take advantage. She tried to be a vigilant proctor.

Runes was simple, and Arithmancy was just solving puzzles. She had worried about Herbology, but Professor Sprout kept it very straight forward, and she had no trouble. Her hands were shaking a bit when Professor Snape handed out the Potions exam, but she was pleasantly surprised that he had mostly stuck to her outline, making a few questions more complex than she had but eliminating one of the essays. At the end of the ninety minutes, she couldn’t find anything that he could mark wrong.

The two of them had settled into a routine in the dungeon. He never greeted her in the morning because she was a student then. Whoever left first at the end of the workday would say good night, and the other would respond in kind. She always had a fresh pot of tea when he finished his Potions classes at ten, and he always had one when the first years bounded out at five and she had to practically scrape herself off the floor.

She was looking forward to marking her students’ exams the first two days of the Christmas holiday with Professor Snape at his work space in the adjoining room. They worked in close proximity every day and evening. They rarely spoke, but it was comforting to her to have another person there.

She was surprised and disappointed when he never appeared during the whole two-week break.

Early in November, the Headmistress had invited her to sit at the head table in the Great Hall for meals. Professor McGonagall instructed Hermione to take her, Professor McGonagall’s, old seat between Professors Sprout and Snape.

The first dinner, Professor Snape introduced her to the wine service the faculty enjoyed, unbeknownst to the students.

“The glasses refill themselves, but it’s swill.”

“You still drink it?” she asked him.

“It’s better than nothing,” he said as if she were not very bright. “Wizard food, Muggle wine…”

“Wizard food, Muggle wine, wizard tailors, Muggle music,” Professor Sprout recited, “Yes, Severus, we’re aware. I think wizard wine and music are not shabby at all, but that’s me.”

Professor Snape shuddered vocally. “No place on earth has produced better music than the country in which we live, and yet we’re stuck with the Weird Sisters and Celestina bloody Warbeck.”

“Celestina sings from my soul,” Professor Sprout said defensively.

“Why one would admit that…” he replied.

Professor Snape had mastered the art of appearing to be looking straight at the students and not engaging in repartee during these mealtime conversations. When he did speak to Hermione, he never actually looked at her. It gave her the freedom to converse back without feeling intimidated by his gaze.

She diligently marked the tests alone in the dungeon. A few were commendable, some were passable, many were disappointing. How could so many of the students fundamentally misunderstand what was important about Potions? She cringed at the thought that she would be judged based on how little the students had retained or had cared enough to put on parchment for the exam.

She had finished her grading in a fraction of the time she had allotted, and now long full days lay ahead of her with no assigned tasks. She had planned out the second half of the year’s lessons every weekend in November and had placed the updated binder on Professor Snape’s desk a week before they were out for the hols.

He had made a few marks and returned the binder without comment. She would have appreciated a bit of encouragement, but she knew that lack of criticism was his tacit approval.

She had bought a Christmas present for him that she planned to give him on the day, but since he was nowhere to be seen, she lay the elegant black mug on the tea table next to her white and blue one. She supposed he would find it when he returned. He had always taken his tea in an old, stained cup from the Great Hall, and she hoped he would enjoy the upgrade.

The school was emptied of most staff and students; there were fifteen in total who had nowhere else to go like herself, Professor Trelawney, and Filch; or who felt compelled to stay, like the Headmistress.

Hermione fell into a funk. Last Christmas had been unavoidably awful, but this one was supposed to be the first in her great, new life. She couldn’t bring herself to regret the break-up with Ron, but she kept thinking about what it must be like at the Burrow—the first Christmas without Fred, but everyone pulling together, comforting each other, and putting on a brave face. She had so cavalierly thrown away this family--the only family she now had--as not worthy enough, and now she found herself as alone as she deserved to be.

She deeply regretted, however; her choice of two years ago not to spend Christmas with her parents. She wanted to go back and shake herself: it’s your last chance, you imbecile! She didn’t even remember why she had decided to stay with Ginny; Ron was seeing Lavender and being a total git about it. Why hadn’t she gone home for Christmas dinner with her mum and dad? Who cares if they wanted to ski? Take a stack of books and enjoy hot beverages in the lodge. The idea of it now sounded unbearably delightful.

Christmas during her fifth year, three years ago, was the last one she had spent at home. Her parents had given her the box set of the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ , and she and her mum had watched the whole thing on Boxing Day eating Christmas chocolate and sharing a box of tissue. The tapes had no doubt been packed away for the move when they had hastily sold their house for the move to Australia. She wondered if her mum had watched them again. It was summer in Australia, and it was hard to picture them not in Christmas jumpers tucking into a roast as they had every Christmas of her childhood.

Aside from Professor Snape, Harry was the only other person for whom she bought a gift. She had found an office supply holder shaped like a golden snitch for his future desk at the Ministry. She wrote a him a Christmas card (she found one with a hyppogriff wearing a Father Christmas hat).

 

Dear Harry,

I will never forget last Christmas walking with you in the snow in Godric’s Hollow, seeing the lights and hearing the music pouring out of the churches. I hope this Christmas is happier for you, but thank you for making last year’s bearable. Please express my love to those around you; even if they don’t currently want it. You don’t have to tell them it’s from me.

Next year, I hope we will all be together.

Happy Christmas, I love you dearly, my brave and caring friend.

Hermione

 

She wasn’t ready to talk to Ginny, but she did write out cards for the Weasleys and Ron.

 

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,

Thank you for all you have done for me these past years. I am truly sorry that I have caused hurt and conflict.

My thoughts turn to Fred and how profound a loss, not only to the family, but to our community and world. What a remarkable, brave, unique son you raised.

All my love,

Hermione

 

Dear Ron,

I am inexpressibly sorry that I have made this year more difficult for you than it already was.

I am still the same person who was your friend for all of those years. I still adore you, Ronald.

For us to be friends again is my fondest hope for 1999.

Happy Christmas,

Hermione

 

On Christmas morning, she received the cards for the Weasleys and Ron returned unopened, a small package from Harry, and a letter from the Burrow. She opened Harry’s present first. It was a black t-shirt that said _Slytherins Do It in the Grass_ in snakey, green letters.

 

Dear Hermione,

So…I hear you and Snape are best mates. At first, I thought this was absurd. Ginny has been on a tear lately. But thinking about it more closely, it actually makes a bit of sense. I don’t understand much of what he does, he’s probably the second most intelligent person I know, and in the end, in spite of all the mental shit he pulled, he was on our side. Sound familiar?

Happy Christmas and please don’t go completely mad.

Love you,

Harry

 

She looked at the t-shirt trying to decide if it was supposed to be a dig or a suggestion. Since it was her only Christmas present, she put it on and then put a snowman jumper from a Weasley Christmas past on top of it. She took a breath and opened the letter.

 

Dear Hermione,

Thank you for the card. Molly needs some more time, but she will come around.

We love you like a daughter, Hermione, and are very proud of you and all you have done in the last year.

Happy Christmas, Dear. We hope you will be here next year.

Love,

Arthur Weasley

 

Christmas in the Great Hall was as festive as the Headmistress and the elves could manage. Hermione pulled a cracker with Professor Flitwick and treats from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes tumbled out.

“Don’t eat the sweets!” she implored them, but it was too late, and Filch’s nose was bleeding all over the table.

The dinner was delicious, and the wine tasted like always. Hermione hadn’t drunk enough in her life to know if it was swill.

The Headmistress had cards for everyone with Flourish and Blotts vouchers. Hermione stayed as long as she could and then went back to Ravenclaw Tower and cried herself to sleep.

On Boxing Day, she made a plan to not be miserable the rest of the holiday.

On the second day after Christmas she took a portkey into London. She went by herself to a movie, the first one she had seen in over two years. She saw _Shakespeare in Love_ and wished her mum were there. Then she went to the Chinese place where she and her mum would eat when they made a trip into the city. She ate dumplings and drank tea and watched people on the street until it was time to take the portkey back.

On the third day after Christmas, she walked down to the apparition point just outside Hogwarts and traveled to the town where the university was. She walked up and down the streets, looking at all of the buildings, shops, and cafes. Everything was closed for the holidays, but she found the library. She also found an open bookshop on the edge of the complex and browsed for about an hour. She bought a university scarf, striped sky blue and black, and wrapped it around her neck. She scoped out the student flats and pictured herself living there. She wandered to the Muggle areas, which were much larger and more populated, and had a cup of tea and a sandwich, read the _Times_ , and again watched people out of the window.

On the fourth day after Christmas, she sneaked into Ginny’s room and took a bubble bath in the large claw-foot tub in the Head Girl’s bathroom. She made herself come via the faucet four times. She decided that a good deal of her problem was that she was sexually frustrated. Wanking in her room with two walls of windows made her feel uneasy. Using her wand made her feel like she was taking advantage of a trusted friend. The tub felt good for the moment, but wasn’t satisfying for long. Still it was a mental _fuck you_ to Ginny, made less effective when Hermione thoroughly cleaned up the tub and triple checked for left items like long brown curls before she sneaked back out. She resolved to find a lover as soon as she arrived at university.

On the fifth day after Christmas, she finally cracked open the Josephine Krueger book the Headmistress had given her for her birthday months before.


	8. Chapter 8

your little voice  
Over the wires came leaping  
and i felt suddenly  
dizzy

e.e. cummings

 

**January 1999**

**Severus**

First Friday night back in the new term, and his throat felt as if a bird was building a nest in there twig by twig. He hadn’t spoken in over a week before the first day of class and the lack of consistent practice had apparently been a bad idea.

The hols had been somewhat of a bust for him. He had left immediately for Prague after the last exam had been turned in. The city was one of his favorite places on earth, and he arrived a day and half before Alla was supposed to meet him, just so he could explore on his own. They were staying in Muggle Prague in a moderately nice hotel they had used before. Her infidelity wasn’t unknown to her husband, in fact it was accepted practice in marriages in which one partner was over sixty years older than the other, but they didn’t want to rub her husband’s nose in it by staying in the wizard section.

Snape and Alla had spent three days mostly in bed, a balm he needed more than he even realized. They went out at night to eat and drink and listen to music and then stumbled back to the room and slept entwined. On the morning of the fourth day he mistook that glorious after-orgasm glow for something other and inquired as to whether she would ever consider leaving her husband and moving to the UK with Snape.

Post-legilimency affairs were tricky business apparently. Her laughter filled the room, and she asked him in that husky accented voice why on earth she would leave the second most powerful wizard in Eastern Europe for an English schoolteacher, who wasn’t even on the right side of the magic continuum. He was apparently too dark for anyone on his island but too light for the Durmstrang crowd. Delightful.

On top of everything he was turning thirty-nine in a few days.

He had returned to England that afternoon and spent the rest of the break in Cokeworth. He had stayed in the house on Spinner’s End fairly regularly since his father had died two years after Snape returned to Hogwarts in the early eighties. He had left the upstairs mostly how his father and mother had before their respective deaths. He had added a basic lab in the basement so he could brew when he needed to. He had transfigured a small living quarters downstairs out of necessity when the Dark Lord made him take on an occupant. But his parents’ bedroom and his own were largely untouched. He had cast maintenance and protection charms around the place, which rendered it practically hermetically sealed. He had resolved to start going through all of his parents’ possessions, finally, and deciding what to do with the place. It would probably take him the whole summer after this term, he realized after he spent a day and a half culling through one box of his father’s medical records.

He had returned to school in time to grade exams before the first school day back. He felt rushed and irritated. The students never failed to disappoint him in how low their standards of comprehension apparently were. The Defense exams were marginally better than Potions, which he attributed to the real life application they had all experienced.

Anything remotely theoretical in Potions of course sailed over almost all heads. The one exception was Miss Granger; whose parchment was such an exercise in overkill that it sucked out any enjoyment he might have in grading the paper of someone who actually knew what she was writing about.

 _After reading your work, I feel like I have been beaten with a cane, and not in a pleasurable way_ , he had written in the margins before putting a tiny E at the top by her name. It didn’t actually exceed expectations at all. It met every irritating expectation he had of the young woman as a student, but it wasn’t clever or original enough to meet his standards for outstanding, and it would be patently unfair to mark her lower.

As an officemate and co-worker, he had no complaints, however. She was polite, quiet, and courteous. He didn’t hate having her around at all to his astonishment. After witnessing Miss Weasley’s behavior he had extrapolated that Miss Granger’s exile at mealtime was probably not voluntary, and he had spoken to the Headmistress about moving her to the staff table. She had been a satisfactory meal companion as well, also very quiet and well mannered. She aggressively poured over the _Daily Prophet_ rag at breakfast every morning, but it was a small offense

He was certain it had been she who had left him a new mug in their office tea corner. It was black and huge in the style the younger people seemingly loved. He cast a shrinking charm on it before he poured his tea for the first time. He didn’t understand the trend of drinking beverages from vessels larger than one’s head. The tea could never stay sufficiently hot, even with the help of charms, and it made the tea/milk ratio almost impossible to perfect. Still, it was the most thoughtful gift he had received in years.

She was still working away at the classroom desk; he could hear the swish of her wand over parchment and occasionally she would shift her weight in her seat. She had given homework immediately in the term, a method he used as well and approved of. He was just straightening his papers and preparing to retire when he heard her lingering in the door.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Miss Granger? I was just about to leave…”

“Yes, me, too. I just wanted to…”

He looked up from his work to see her holding a package. Her face was reddening by the moment.

“I have this for you. Happy birthday. I know it’s early…” She put the present on his desk. “I don’t see you on weekends, so I thought I would just give it to you today.” She looked completely abashed.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” He tried not to show too much annoyance, but he never talked about personal details at work. There was usually a cake at the January faculty meeting, but that was the only way he ever acknowledged he even had a birthday.

“I saw it on a…document,” she admitted. Probably during the court proceedings. He had tried to push the details of his trial to a back corner of his mind. The fact that she and Weasley and Potter and the whole bloody Ministry and the whole bloody country knew intimately about him was horrifying.

“You have the same birthday as my Nana, well, that she had. Day and month, not year, obviously. It made it easier to remember. I’m sorry if it’s not…appropriate for me to…”

He sighed and took the gift. It was clearly a bottle, wrapped rather elegantly in brown paper with a small black velvet ribbon. He untied the bow and pulled out a bottle of Merlot that he would never choose for himself.

“Miss Granger, thank you. I didn’t know you were familiar with wine.” Clearly she wasn’t.

“I’m not. My parents liked red wine, so I found a bottle that looked familiar. Then I asked the man working there what I could buy for about a third of the price that wasn’t terrible.”

“This isn’t terrible,” he said generously, and then he lost his head. “Would you like to share it with me?” _What the hell?_

She turned a deeper shade of purple.

“Yes, actually, that sounds very nice.”

_Too bad because I’ve obviously gone insane._

“I have a little garden where I sit in the evening. Are you finished with your work?”

“Yes, Sir, I was just leaving.”

“I’m finished as well.” He stacked the parchments a final time, grabbed the wine and stood up. He walked toward the back entrance, and opened the door for her. She walked through and then stopped. It looked like a dead-end.

“The doors are concealed. The garden is this way.” He walked a few paces and swirled his wand at the door’s direction as a knob appeared. His quarters were behind another concealed door, but she didn’t need to know that. He walked into the garden and hit a temperature charm that made it immediately pleasant. The magical bistro lights glowed and the music started playing, louder than was practical for conversation, he realized. He never had company out here. He lowered the volume a bit.

She looked amazed at his little space. “I’ve never seen this on the grounds! This is…lovely, Professor.”

“I don’t usually want it seen.”

“You have a dungeon with a view,” she said incredulously. How must she think that he lived, like some staggering hunchback?

“I suppose.” He grabbed a corkscrew and two glasses from a little cabinet and brought them to the table, inviting her to sit. He removed the foil and cork in about three motions, putting on a bit of a show for her. He stopped himself from pouring her a sniffing portion, and just poured the two drinks.

He took a sip; it wasn’t as bad as he feared. “What do you think?” he asked after she took a tentative drink.

“It’s nice,” she said quietly, and _nice_ was an apt adjective for this wine. He preferred bold to outrageous, but nice would do.

He lit a cigarette and offered her one.

“Oh, no,” she sounded horrified.

“Never smoked?”

“No, my parents were…my parents are in the healthcare field.”

“Doctors?”

“Dentists.”

He instinctively hid his embarrassing teeth.

“Where do they live?”

She looked at him as if she were trying to determine why he had asked that question.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Do you not know…I mean; I guess there’s no reason why you would…”

“You’ve lost me, Miss Granger.”

She sighed and looked at the table.

“I had to do something…awful a little over a year ago. It eventually made the papers, but…you…of course you were in hospital.” She looked up at him. “They were in danger. I was going on that…quest with Harry and Ron.” The way she said the word _quest_ made it clear she had ambivalent verging on negative feelings about it. “My parents are my only living relatives. I…I helped them sell their house and emigrate to Australia, which I explained was for their protection. Then when we got there, and after they found a house and started a practice, I obliviated myself from their memories.”

“They’re still living?”

“As far as I know.”

“They almost certainly would not be had you not acted.”

She gave him a small smile. “Thank you for the reassurance. I go back and forth constantly about it.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Oh, no, don’t be sorry! I love talking about them, and everyone always avoids the subject to spare my feelings.”

“Alright then,” he chuckled. “Tell me about them. How did a couple of dentists have a Hermione? Shouldn’t you be Anne…or Jane?”

Her face lit up. “My father was a frustrated classicist. He dreamt of studying at Cambridge and being a professor.”

“What diverted him?”

“My parents grew up during the war, Muggle World War II, I guess I don’t have to qualify that with you…”

“No.”

“Anyway, apparently service to one’s country was greatly emphasized, and he decided his duty was to serve the fledgling NHS, which was a sacred cow in our house. He started out in medical school and ended up in dentistry where he met my very clever mum, who just happens to be one of the first female dentists in Britain,” she said proudly.

“My mother was born during the war,” he said trying to make the timeline fit in his head. Miss Granger must be about twenty years younger than he.

“I was a late in life child,” she explained. “My dad was forty-five when I was born and my mum forty-four. They had given up on ever having children and had settled into a lovely life of holiday travel and carefree weekends when I appeared.”

“Full-grown from your father’s head?”

She laughed and her eyes sparkled in the low light. “The conventional way. My mum didn’t realize she was pregnant for quite a while, though. She was terrified she had damaged me because of dental x-rays, and maybe…I mean, I’ve always wondered.”

“No magic in the family?”

“None that we’re aware of.”

“How did they react when they found out their daughter was a witch?”

“Incredulous but a bit relieved, actually. It cleared up some longstanding family mysteries.”

“Fires? Rivals in the classroom with perpetually broken pencils?”

“Well, no fires.” She looked at him ruefully. “And as good Brits of their station, they had planned to send me to boarding school anyway.”

There was a lull in the conversation as they sipped their wine.

“And your family, Sir?”

“More wine, Miss Granger?”

“Thanks,” she apparently took the hint. “This music?”

“What about it?”

“It’s what you like?”

“Yes, do you not?”

“No, I’m just not familiar with it. You mentioned Muggle music at dinner...”

“If it was recorded in Britain from 1960 to 1990, I probably like it. This particular…album” he always struggled with the Muggle technology that seemed to change every ten years or so. He had it all stored in the enchanted string of lights, and he could scroll through his collection with a flick of the wand. “This particular…recording…is from the mid-eighties.”

“You attended university, Sir?”

“I did.”

“I visited it, did a self-tour, so to speak, over the hols.”

“On your own?”

“Yes, I thought about asking Neville to go with me, but he was home with his Gran.”

Miss Granger at university was hardly surprising, but he was somewhat impressed that she had taken it upon herself to go there alone.

“That’s your plan, then? University? Do you want to come back here and teach?” The idea was not unpleasant to him.

“I don’t think so. I like teaching Potions, but I have a feeling that position will be filled next year and for the foreseeable future, correct?” She smiled at him.

“Perhaps.”

“If anything, I might want to teach history, but it’s not like Professor Binns is going anywhere,” she sighed and then added under her breath, “Although he’s a travesty.”

“Hogwarts institution. It will never change.”

“Rather unfortunate that whole generations of witches and wizards will never truly appreciate their history because the way it is taught, but hey, tradition! Right?”

“There’s nothing I can do about it. Binns is a rite of passage.”

“Would you feel the same way if he taught Potions? No, I think not!” She was becoming quite exercised and then caught herself and laughed for a moment. “Stop me, please. What I was saying is that I probably want to do something else anyway. I read this book over the break, are you familiar with Josephine Krueger?”

“No.”

“She teaches history and witches’ studies at the university. She’s a feminist.”

“And she’s changed your life through one book.” He tried to keep the sneer subtle.

“No, her theory is fascinating and expands on what I’ve been thinking about since my third or fourth year.”

“And that is?”

“Our world is a _mess_. It’s one bad decision after another unfortunate policy after countless ridiculous ‘traditions’.” She said the last word in a blatantly mocking tone. “Krueger’s theory, it’s more of a system of theories, really, is that when wizards grabbed power, it put us on a destructive course. Did you know that before the Middle Ages the magical world was a completely matriarchal society? Then here comes the plague; here come the witch hunts, and suddenly the witches lose power and the wizards grab the brass ring, so to speak. Even here, Rowena and Helga routinely get shoved aside so Godric and Salazar can endlessly whip them out and prove whose is larger!”

He lit his third cigarette and inhaled deeply. This was going to cost him dearly with Babs when he had to go to therapy next week. “Mercy, Miss Granger.” Whole curls had spilled from her ubiquitous plait and were framing her face. “On behalf of the patriarchy, I humbly apologize.”

She continued, not seeming angry in the least but thrilled to have someone willing to listen to this.

“I have been fascinated, furious, and motivated by the treatment of nonhuman magical creatures, not Hagrid’s area, but you know, elves, giants, trolls, goblins, etc. for years.”

“Really?”  he said with mock incredulity. There had been entire staff meetings devoted to what to do about Miss Granger and her crusade to liberate the house elves against their will.

“I admit my past efforts have been misguided at best,” she had recognized his tone. “I spent nine months living in a tent with a largely fruitless mission in front of me. I had copious time to think. Probably too much. But I realized that I had not been helpful or particularly enlightened about the subject. So I’m ignorant; I want to learn. I want to determine what I can do that could actually help. Could actually do some good.”

He realized she was finishing her second glass of wine as her words started to slur very slightly.

“Nothing would find me happier or more fulfilled than making life as difficult as possible for those blowhards at the Ministry my entire professional career.” She sat back in her chair and smiled at him.

“You have to fight the powers that be, Miss Granger,” he told her. “May I ask, why are you not taking N.E.W.T. level Defense?”

“I don’t plan to fight that way!”

“I wasn’t implying that you should, it just seems like an odd omission.”

“Not really, I’m not taking Transfiguration or Charms, either. I’m taking the N.E.W.T.s I need to be accepted into the university history program.”

“One might suggest that you are taking a rather Muggle-centric path. Maths, science, history, language…”

“I’ve never thought about that consciously, but it could be. I feel rather…disenchanted, no pun intended, about magic. Is there anything I’ll ever need to charm or transfigure that I can’t already handle? That sounds terrible. I’m trying to work on arrogance.”

“No need to apologize for arrogance to me, Miss Granger. I’ve just never known you not to take everything offered.”

“That’s not true. I dropped Divination years ago.”

“Yes, well…”

“As far as Defense goes…”

She looked as if she didn’t know how to articulate something for the first time that evening.

“I’m just so weary of it,” she sounded sad. “Perhaps it’s shortsighted. History has shown about once a generation something emerges.”

“Once a generation if one is lucky,” he added neutrally. “I understand, though. I’m weary of it myself.” She was looking at him in such a way…he was tempted to lean over and kiss her. Too much wine, clearly. “It’s time for me to retire. Thank you very much, Miss Granger, for the wine…”

“Oh thank _you_ , Professor. This has been absolutely lovely. I’m sorry I monopolized the conversation.”

“Nonsense. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes, sir, happy birthday, sir.”

“Please don’t remind me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoo9Vu1a9bU


	9. Chapter 9

**February 1999**

**Hermione**

 

She had less than a hundred days before she would sit for her N.E.W.T.s. She had made a time-table of study and stuck to it strictly every day. One hour with Neville in Potions study, one hour by herself. One hour of Herbology, two hours of history, Arithmancy, and Runes only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Three hours of grading, one hour of teaching prep, one hour experimenting in the Potions lab trying to come up with something brilliant to keep this year or that on their toes, one hour in the lab practicing for the brewing portion of the N.E.W.T.s.

She was embarrassed to return to the dungeon after she drank too much of Professor Snape’s wine and made a fool out of herself in his garden. He didn’t mention it, though, and he started talking to her more during the day. They still worked in very quiet stretches at their desks, but they began to banter in the lab more freely; only, of course, when there were no students around. At meal time, though, they spoke as if they had been friends for years, always with his face stonily toward the students. She began feeling as if her left ear was especially sensitive because his voice next to it made her whole body warm.

She was working her way through _Advanced Potion Making_ , Half-Blood Prince edition page by page perfecting her brews from sixth year.

“What is your obsession with that book?” Professor Snape had asked her as she dumped the fifth incarnation of a Pulchritudo potion because the caramel colour after step fourteen was not how the Prince described it.

“Do you know how Harry ended up with this? He failed to enroll in Advanced Potions, was press ganged into joining the class anyway by the Headmaster, showed up without a book, and then Professor Slughorn handed him this. First day, we have to brew the Draught of Living Death to win a phial of Felix Felisis, and Harry—you know how he was at Potions—Harry brews the perfect draught, better than mine--not by much--and wins the contest. And of course it turns out YOU have the perfect instructions in your book, and Harry was just following them. YOU helped Harry Potter become the Potions king!”

“Glad you’re not harbouring any bitterness.”

“I can’t even begin to express; I spent hours in the library trying to ascertain who this book belonged to. I found a picture of your mother…”

Professor Snape’s eyebrows shot up.

“I had no idea that she was your mother. I should say I found Eileen Prince’s photo, and I had a credible theory that it was her book.”

“So close, Miss Granger. You couldn’t stand for someone to be better than you in anything?”

“It’s a problem for sure, but it wasn’t only that. Harry is better than me in many areas. Most of them, like riding a broom, I don’t care about, so it doesn’t bother me much. Harry is better than me at Defense; that’s fine. I love that he’s fantastic at it. But he was better than me in Slughorn’s class not because he was more talented or worked harder.”

“I see. It was fundamental unfairness.”

“Yes!”

“Is it fundamentally fair that you were born to geniuses who had enough money to send you to the very best schools, and who provided you with every advantage and material good you could ever want or need? Is it fundamentally fair that they adored you, nurtured a love of learning, and encouraged your every curiosity and whim?”

She was silent. Ugh, why hadn’t she shut up two minutes ago. He looked at her smugly and continued.

“Just out of curiosity, at what pursuits is Weasley better than you, and what are your feelings about those?”

“Ron is much better at chess than I am.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true. I have a difficult time concentrating enough on it to be able to see three moves ahead. I start feeling badly for the pawns and resenting the king. Plus I learned it first the non-wizard way. The pieces stayed still until I moved them.”

“But you are not invested in your ability to play chess?”

“Not particularly, no.”

She was redoing the potion for the sixth time.

“Look at your heat,” he instructed her. “What does it say about the fire?”

“The book says medium-low, the Prince says violet.”

“I think the Prince sees violet as bluer than you do. Your violet is too purple.”

“Thank you!” She adjusted the heat a fraction with her wand, and almost immediately the color of the potion started behaving. “I would describe the color of that fire as lilac, by the way.” She took her wand and pointed it to the book.

“What are you doing?” He raised his voice in an alarmed tone.

“I’m changing the directions to violet/lilac to indicate a bluer purple.”

“What gives you the right?” He sounded incredulous.

“Nothing. You?” She thought she might be pushing her luck, but she suspected he was not totally serious in his outrage. “Do you mind? May I please add a helpful note to your instructions, Professor?”

“Helpful to whom? Will you be using this book in the future?”

“Probably not.” She drew her wand to erase the addition.

“Leave it, Miss. Granger. I will look upon it and remember the year I was tormented by an apprentice.”

He tormented her back the next morning at breakfast. She took the _Daily Prophet_ every day, just as she had for years. The highlight of the newspaper was the crossword puzzle on page sixteen. She worked it every day of her Hogwarts life. The wizard version gave questions just like its Muggle cousin, but the boxes floated on the page and had to be placed correctly and then filled in. It was timed beginning with the first wand stroke, and automatically cut off at seven minutes. Hermione’s fastest time was 3:07. She had been working for years to break the three-minute mark, which was considered mastery level.

She usually completed the puzzle while the professors around her chatted and paid her no attention. That day, however, boxes she wasn’t moving fell into place with complete words.

“What are you doing?” She said, too engrossed in the puzzle to see who was interloping.

“Helping,” Professor Snape said. “Eight letters, weeping willow: mandrake.”

“You’ve made this doubles,” she said testily.

“What does that mean? Four letters, Seek East: Krum.”

“It means we failed. 2:57.”

“Is that bad?”

“Mastery for doubles is under two minutes.”

“But that’s not fair, I just started helping in the end.”

“Precisely.”

“We’ll practice again tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

They cut ten seconds the next day solely because he started from the beginning, but they got stuck around 2:45 the following days and couldn’t seem to improve significantly.

On Friday, February 12, when the owl delivered the paper, they put their wands at the ready. Hermione flipped the front page, and was shocked to see herself on page four.

 

_Queen of (Broken) Hearts_

_Exclusive to the Daily Prophet by Rita Skeeter_

The picture was an awful one, taken in late May of last year. It showed her and the boys coming out of the Ministry, probably during one of the days of the trials. Ron had his arm around her shoulders, but she was turned to Harry saying something. The wind was blowing curls in her face. She brushed them away with her hand, and then she just happened to turn to the camera with an annoyed look on her face. Again, and again, and again.

“Rubbish,” Professor Snape said. “You know it’s rubbish. They all will.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t rubbish. Whoever Skeeter’s source was, knew most of the story. Of course Hermione’s motives were not reported accurately. Hermione was not in contact with Viktor Krum or any of the other quidditch players mentioned in the article. But the bare-bones facts were accurate. Skeeter had her going to Grimmauld Place in early September and dropping a bombshell on Ron. It had fractured the Golden Trio, and the Weasleys were estranged from her. Her eyes took in the story in horror.

“Can we please do the puzzle now, or do we have to give that ridiculous woman further credence?” he asked her.

“Yes, let’s do the puzzle.”

3: 02. He did most of it by himself.

She waited all day to be taunted about the story. Either there wasn’t a Malfoy or Parkinson in training enrolled, or her teaching position gave her a bit of immunity from open ridicule. She ate lunch in the dungeon, and Ginny wasn’t at dinner; Hermione suspected she had been granted permission to spend Valentine’s Day weekend at Grimmauld Place. Professor Snape must have had somewhere to be as well because she didn’t see him after they finished grading that night.

Since his birthday, she had been hoping that he would ask her to the garden again.  She fancied him bordering on obsession. Talking to him was the highlight of her day. She felt in her gut it was ill-fated, mostly because she suspected he was way out of her league. And the fact that he was never around when classes weren’t in session or when he didn’t have papers to mark made her believe he must have a lover somewhere anyway. If nothing else, he was her friend, even if their friendship might look odd to the outside world.

She received no Valentines on Sunday, but she wasn’t expecting any. She completed the puzzle by herself in 3:05, and counted the hours until Monday morning when he would be back by her side at breakfast. She spent the rest of the day studying undisturbed in the dungeon.

When Monday finally arrived, the owl dropped a big heart-shaped box on her lap, along with the _Prophet_.

“Cupid is tardy, I see,” Professor Snape said.

For an instant she thought he had sent it. A blush spread up her neck to her cheeks, and a smile took over her mouth. She opened the box and wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first. She registered curly hair, dissected rat, words, pins; her brain scrambled to put it together. Just as she did, Professor Snape stood up and snatched it from her, put the lid back on it, and dropped it in the bin behind the staff table.

It was a rat corpse with its heart cut out. The heart was beside the rat, affixed to the box with a long, straight pin. The rat had a curly haired doll wig on its head and was wearing a robe upon which the word _Heartless_ had been written in blood.

“Breathe, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape said very quietly in her ear.

She realized her lungs were full and suspended. She exhaled and inhaled.

“Shut your mouth,” he instructed and she realized her chin was on her chest.

“Breathe again.”

She did. He put his face right to her ear, she could feel his nose on her cheek.

“Now laugh quietly as if I said something that’s not terribly funny, but you want to preserve my feelings.”

She laughed and looked at him sympathetically.

“Perfect. Pick up your tea and take a sip.”

She did.

“The seventh year table is no longer staring.”

“Thank you. Do you think Ginny sent it? Or Ron?” She kept the small smile on her face, but big tears were collecting in her eyes.

“No, it was some nutter. I used to get something like that once a week, on a good week. I had my mail filtered, so I don’t see them anymore. You can do the same, but I doubt it’s worth the effort.”

“Why…? Why would someone go to all that trouble just to be horrible?”

“People are bored. People become invested in the lives of those that gain fame, or in my case, notoriety. People are mentally ill. Who knows. It has nothing to do with you. You have a tear just by your mouth now. Take a bite of toast and then just wipe right there. It wasn’t even well done. Heart on the side _and_ the word _heartless_? Bit of an insult to the intelligence, really. Let’s do the puzzle.”

2:45. It was Hermione’s fault again.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

**March 1999**

**Severus**

Even when he had rounds, he always maintained a pretext of leaving the dungeons alone. He said good night to her, or responded if she was ready to leave first, and then he would go through one of the lesser known doors to get to the corridor. If she was walking to the library or to Ravenclaw Tower, he would take an alternate route, never letting her be aware that he was behind her.

He would have continued this routine if it hadn’t been for her divergence in habits that one Friday night in March. After dinner she walked back to the dungeon as she always did to finish her marking before the weekend, but that night her hair had sprung from its plait. She had taken its regular grey ribbon and tied the top portion back to keep it out of her face, but she had a mass of curls around her head.

He read his own students’ essays, once again astounded by the rampant stupidity plaguing the school, but a little thought kept bubbling to the surface. When she poked her head in to tell him she had finished, he couldn’t help himself.

“I have patrol tonight. Wait a minute and I’ll walk you. Are you going to the library?”

“Patrol! I haven’t done patrol since I was a Prefect. Could I come with you?”

“I suppose. You may have forgotten, but it’s drudgery. And it’s Friday night, so there is no telling who or what will be lurking about.”

“That’s fine. I haven’t been over to Gryffindor Tower in a while, and I’d like the walk.”

He tidied his desk while she packed her bag and they left out of the main door.

The Slytherin wing was quiet. He shooed a few girls out of the hall and into the common room.

“I don’t suppose I can take a peek?”

“No, Miss Granger. You’re too old.”

“I’m jealous of the new students who get to live everywhere.”

“You may be the only one. I still get daily owls from Slytherins wondering how I allowed it to be destroyed.”

“You were in hospital!” She said, apparently outraged on his behalf.

“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I defend the policy.”

They made their way past the kitchens to the entrance of the Hufflepuff basement. They could hear the youngest ones inside, but the students were contained.

Gryffindor was also quiet; Minerva must have drugged them. Hermione said hello to the Fat Lady, who responded with chilling politeness.

“Good evening, Miss Granger. Are you sure it is appropriate to associate with a Gryffindor?”

“Yes Ma’am. I’ve missed you. The Eagle sneers at me. You were always so kind.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger. What do you hear from Mr. Potter? I won’t ask about Mr. Weasley.”

“Harry is fine. He’s about two-thirds of the way through his Auror training. I’ll send your regards when I speak to him next.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger. I need my rest now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They continued toward Ravenclaw. “Needs a liter of Ogden’s is more like it,” Hermione whispered to him.

“Does the eagle really sneer?”

“Of course not, that’s you,” she said with a little smile.

“Yes, Miss Granger. What you have to endure. Lucky for you we’re getting close to your stop.”

As they approached, they heard very the very distinct noise of a gathering protected by a badly cast silencing charm. The voices were loud enough to hear but muffled. He disarmed the charm at once and the voices became sharp and clear. It was the seventh years in a smallish alcove that students had used for years, often better warded. He looked at Hermione and put his finger to his lips.

“I should probably hide. They’ll hate me even more if they see that I’m with you when you catch them,” she whispered in his ear on her toes with one hand on his shoulder. The benign physical contact sent a shiver through him.

“Stay right here. You can duck behind the tapestry when I go in. You have to wait for the ideal moment,” he whispered.

“Never have I ever…swallowed spunk!” It was Miss Weasley’s voice, loud and easily identifiable. There was a cacophony of laughter.

“No, Neville,” said a quieter voice, perhaps Miss Abbott’s. “You take a drink if you _have_ done it.”

He looked at Hermione. _There’s your star student._ She had a hand clamped across her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, and she smacked him in the arm for his look. It was time to make his entrance. He strode into the little niche to discover twenty guilty seventh years seated in a circle, all with cups pilfered from the Great Hall.

“Keep your imbecilic vulgarities in your common room, Miss Weasley. And contraband as well. Hand over the fire whiskey, Miss Bones.” The girl gave up the bottle immediately. “Thank you. Mr. Serrano, Miss Fitzgerald, I am surprised and disappointed to find you with this lot. I thought you had more class. That will be five points from each of you, and every one of you will have detention in the dungeon Monday afternoon at the conclusion of the first years’ Potions class. You can scrape Miss Granger’s pathetic attempts to teach brewing out of the cauldrons until dinner.” He could feel Hermione’s outrage behind him and he had to breathe carefully not to burst into laughter.

“That will be five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty points from Gryffindor.” He counted with his fingers showily. “Twenty-five points from Hufflepuff, Twenty-points from Ravenclaw, I see you, Mr. Gulley, and ten points from Slytherin. Because of the multi-partisan spirit you are showing, I will add five points back to each house. I would recommend that at least one of you learn to cast a sufficient silencing charm before you leave us this year. I will escort you all back to Ravenclaw Tower. Why are you not having this soiree in there in the first place, Mr. Longbottom?”

“Professor Flitwick charmed it against contraband, Sir.”

“Right. Well done, Professor Flitwick. Here we are. I will take the goblet of the obscene declarations, Miss Weasley, and I will see you all Monday.”

They said the password to the sleeping eagle, who let them in without opening an eye. Snape went back to tell Hermione it was time to come out, but she had skulked behind them quietly. He showed her his loot.

He held out the bottle as a sort of invitation. “Garden, Miss Granger?”

Her eyes lit up as if he had made a much more elegant offer. The small flame stoked inside him at her reaction.

“Pathetic attempts?” she chided him.

They stole back down to the dungeon and out the back door. It was still frigidly cold, so he hit a warming charm and kept the music low.

“First of all, this is unworthy of us.” He dumped the cheap fire whiskey on the grounds, placed the bottle in a concealed bin, and returned to his cabinet. “I do have some Ogden’s but I have to admit, I prefer the Muggle variety.”

“How surprising,” she said with a laugh. “Professor Sprout would be dashed.”

“Indeed. Let’s see, I have Irish, Tennessee, Scotch, I wouldn’t recommend that unless you have drunk a lot of whiskey—you were in that tent for nine months…”

“With nary a drop.”

“Pity. I have Kentucky bourbon. You choose.”

“Let’s go with Irish. Tis the season.”

“Ta.”

He grabbed his whiskey set up: a bottle of Jameson, a bucket of ice, a bottle of mineral water, and two glasses, and led her to the table where he poured himself a generous glass and her about a finger, cut with more water and plenty of ice.

“It’s quite a lot at first,” he warned her. “So, how is this game played?” He drew into the goblet and read aloud. “’Never have I ever wanked in the shower’.”  He gave her a withering look and pulled another. “’Never have I ever eaten a bogie’. These are terrible. ‘Never have I ever gone in public without a…’” he couldn’t possibly say the word and maintain his dignity, so he edited it quickly, “’brassiere.’ Alright, Miss Granger, new game.”

“Good choice,” she said. “When can I try the whiskey?”

“Drink whenever you want to, and we’ll just ask each other questions we don’t think the other will be overly offended by.”

“Sounds fine, you go first,” she told him.

“Splendid. Have you ever wanked in the shower?”

“Really?”

“No. What is the real story with you and Weasley?”

She sighed. “Did you read the article?”

“No.” He had.

“Whoever she talked to had the basic facts correct. She wrote I was shagging a variety of quidditch players, and that’s not true, but the actual events were accurate. I went to Grimmauld Place one Saturday morning in September, I woke up Ron, and told him I didn’t want to be romantically involved with him anymore.”

“What had he done?”

“Nothing. He’d done nothing.” She sighed again, took a drink and grimaced slightly. “Ooooh, that’s strong. He was with me through most of the ordeal last year. There was a brief period when he became upset with the seeming futility of the mission and left for a few weeks.”

“I sent the Patronus as he was returning, apparently.”

“That’s right; that’s when they found the sword. Anyway, we became very close. We were already…mutually interested in each other romantically by the end of sixth year, but it definitely became more serious on the ‘quest.’” She finger-quoted the last word.

“After the battle and the…procedures at the Ministry, we went back to the Burrow, and it was as if we had married sometime during the year. It was the same with Harry and Ginny. Everyone was treating us as if we had been bonded already. It was _when are you starting your family,_ and _where are you going to live_ , and _Hermione, what kind of house are you going to keep_. I’m exaggerating slightly, but you get the idea. I couldn’t find even a glimmer of joy at the thought of living that life. Ron was my friend, is my friend, I hope someday, but not my life partner, if I even have one. I should have ended it before the Headmistress wrote me of the job, but I was too much of a coward to do it in front of the whole family. That’s why I waited.”

She took another drink, which seemed to go down more smoothly.

“Why Weasley, though?” He asked.

“Why Weasley what?”

“Instead of Potter. Why Weasley?”

“It was Ron from the first time I saw them. Who knows why it was Ron. They’re both equally adorable.”

“We need to lay some stronger ground rules for this game. The word _adorable_ is banned.”

She laughed. “I’ll say this. When I found out Harry was snogging Cho Chang, I thought ooooh, cute couple. When I found out Ron was snogging Lavender Brown, I had no coherent thoughts except for RAGE.”

“So how would you feel if Weasley were snogging someone now and you found out about it?”

“I would hope that she’s good enough for him.”

“You made the right decision, clearly.”

“You’re the only one that thinks so.”

“Imagine the person you love most, the one you think is your ideal partner, the one you want to be with for the rest of your life, decides she loves you as person but doesn’t want to be with you…romantically. He’s obviously upset over the situation and his family has predictably rallied around him.”

_I can’t believe I’m defending Weasley._

Her mouth was turning down as she listened to him. He wanted to trace its outline with his finger. “Your turn, go easy,” he told her and lit a cigarette.

“Do you have a significant other?” Her voice had the slightest edge.

He coughed up the smoke; he was expecting her to go full-on Lily, he was prepared for it. This question, though. Was she trying to ask him if he had a boyfriend?

“I’ll answer, but I’m curious as to why you asked that.”

“You disappeared for the whole Christmas holiday, you disappear every weekend you don’t have a school event, you don’t even come to meals on the weekends. You must be somewhere, and I thought maybe you were with someone.”

“I don’t have a significant other—that turn of phrase.” He took in a breath of nicotine and let it fill his chest before he slowly blew it out.  “I did have a sometime, long distance…paramour…in Prague, but she ended it at Christmas.”

 “Oh, I’m sorry.”

_Are you?_

“I suggested it could be more than just occasional meetings, and she declined. My life has been complicated for many years. It wasn’t conducive to having…someone.” He drained his whiskey and poured another glass. “As to the weekends, I like solitude. I’m usually in my quarters. I read quite a bit. I have insomnia frequently, so I try to sleep more. I have meals out here. I attempt to forget I’m at school for a few hours. Did I answer sufficiently?”

“Yes. Your turn.”

“Would you like another drink?”

“I’m still managing this one.”

“What was the nature of your relationship with Weasley?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it…”

“Are you trying to ask me if I had sexual relations with that man, Mr. Weasley?”

They had been following the _Daily Prophet’s_ scant coverage the American President’s sex scandal every morning after they finished the crossword puzzle.

“That was a terrible President Clinton, Miss Granger. You should be embarrassed. But yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

“Yes, I did,” she finished her drink, and he poured her a little bit more with less water this time. “Starting last summer at the Burrow. It would have been awkward in the tent. With Harry.”

“Disappointing all of those Potter/Weasley/Granger fetishists.”

“Oh surely that doesn’t exist.”

“Oh surely it does.”

“That’s just… I really need to not think about that,” She drank her whole glass down and pushed it toward him slightly. He poured a little more.

“No,” she said, clearly trying to negotiate what to reveal. “I roomed with Lavender Brown for years and years, including the whole time she was with Ron. They didn’t actually have…intercourse...apparently, but they were…otherwise sexually engaged. She told me--rather she told our other roommate, and I was in the room--more than I wanted to know. I had to move beyond feeling…uneasy about that.”

“Were you jealous or repulsed?”

“I was both.”

“And when you finally gave in?” The thought of Weasley pawing her made his stomach turn. He took a long drink.

“Why do you think it was me who gave in?”

“You were the reluctant one in your narrative, or did I misunderstand?”

“Ron never pressured me. In fact, he treated me like a porcelain doll during and after the…ordeal…of last year. I decided it was time and…initiated.”

His cock was stirring. He blew out smoke long and slow. “And you found the experience…?”

“Comforting. Mildly disappointing. Ultimately unsatisfying.” She had sat back in her chair and she was leaning to one side on the armrest. She had spoken quietly and looked vulnerable as if she was afraid he was going to analyze further. She had effectively summarized every sexual experience he’d ever had.

“Your turn,” he matched her physically, sitting back in his chair.

“Did you have…relationships here as a student? At university?”

“I had my first sexual experience, not counting wanking in the shower, when I was nineteen. I had, as you put it, intercourse at twenty. It was while I was at university.”

“Long term relationships?”

“Not really. You have to understand, Miss Granger, it was a time very much like the last few years. I was pulled by both sides, just as I was recently. I’m not blaming anyone; it was my own fault. I made my own choices, but it didn’t…I wasn’t able to have any kind of life.”

“But you did have a girlfriend? I mean just recently.”

“She was not a girlfriend. And while she was not what you would call a…Death Eater,” how he loathed that term, “she was, she is, in the _surely the Death Eaters aren’t so terrible_ crowd.”

He felt raw and unprotected and as if he might have made a serious mistake telling her all of this. She was sipping her whiskey, looking at him above her glass, not at all unkindly, but her thoughts were impossible to read. Without the crutch he had used for so many years he felt stunted. A silence fell between them, and he wasn’t able to determine if it was awkward. Finally, she spoke up.

“I’ve had too much to drink.” She paused for a moment. “I have to study for N.E.W.T.s all day tomorrow.”

“Have a lie-in and then study the rest of the day. The dungeon will be deserted. May I…” Of all the territories they had crossed that evening, he felt this one might be the most treacherous.

“Yes Sir?”

“May I offer you a suggestion for your exams?”

“Of course, Sir, yes,” she had sat up eagerly and was sorting through her bag as if to find a quill and parchment.

“Just listen, Miss Granger.” She looked up from the bag and met his eyes.

“No one will out-study you; no one will out-write you. However, someone might out-think you. When you write your exams, instead of putting every fact you’ve ever heard or read on the parchment, think about the subtleties of the question. Cut your words in half and concentrate on your analysis.”

“That E,” she said with obvious irritation.

“Yes.”

“I just wanted you to know that I’d heard you, that I’d heard every word, that I take you…your class seriously.” Tears were welling in her eyes.

“Miss Granger…your abilities as a student are not something you have to sell. Stop worrying about what I will think of you, what any person will think of you. Your wand--are you a master of making large, aggressive spells like Potter? Or do you excel in the quiet, intricate work? Which is more difficult? If you must make it a contest--your peers, your wizard-born peers, dare I say, can’t cast a decent silencing charm to save their hides. Stop worrying about impressing people. Stop beating me over the head with your club. I know you’re brilliant.”

The tears had spilled over, but she was smiling now, looking at him…admiringly? She was so lovely, he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and take her back to his quarters.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said and she started gathering up her bag and straightening her robes.

Her teacher. He was just her teacher. That’s all she saw. Perhaps her friend. She had lost most of her friends.

He rose to walk her back to the tower; she was slightly unsteady on her feet. Suddenly she turned and put her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He put his hands lightly on her back and angled his hips in a way that his erection wouldn’t debauch her or the moment. He stood back from the embrace and offered her his arm. She took it and rested her head against his shoulder as they walked the deserted halls.

When they were a few paces away from the door to the tower she said, “It was a cane, Sir.”

“Miss Granger?”

“It wasn’t a club. It was a cane I beat you with, and not in a pleasurable way.” She stepped out of his arm and turned to him just out of earshot of the eagle. “I wasn’t sure whether I should cry or go wank in the shower.”

She approached the eagle and disappeared behind the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**April and May 1999**

**Hermione**

 

Professor Snape hated almost everything.

He hated the wine at dinner. _Ugh, swill._ He hated the choice of jams in the morning. _Would it kill someone to include blackberry?_ He hated the crossword clues. _Wandish is NOT a word._ He hated the students. _Useless gits._ He hated the weather. _Rain again. I loathe Scotland._ He hated Scotland. _Bugger off, Scotland!_

He did not hate her.

“Miss Granger, sometimes I feel my sanity hangs in the balance of this cup of tea.” He told her as she handed him his mug after the sixth years left and before she took over.

They started ordering lunch in every school day and eating at his big work desk in the back.

“Grease balls again, I can feel my arteries screaming,” he said, looking at his toasted cheese sandwich.

“Professor, you seem…out of sorts.”

“I _am_ out of sorts, Miss Granger.”

“Is there a reason? Is there something I could help you with?”

“I wish you could. I am the victim of an anti-smoking charm.”

“Really? Who has cast this charm?”

“My therapist.”

“You’re in therapy, Professor? As in, _lie down and tell me about your mother_?”

“No, Miss Granger, not that kind of therapy, but thank you ever so for putting that image out there. _Physical_ therapy. I have a therapist for my throat.”

“Ahhhhh. Well, you know they say that sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette.”

“Charming, Miss Granger.”

“And what does the spell entail? What will happen if you slip up and put yourself and those around you out of our misery?”

“My hair will turn pink for a month.”

“That was clever. If it were forty-eight hours, even seventy-two, you would figure out a way to time it perfectly.”

“My therapist is not an imbecile.”

“Clearly not. So this is ruining your life.”

“It is. Not only am I denied the pleasure that only a cigarette brings at the end of the day, but she has ruined wine, whiskey, and beer as well.”

“Anti-drinking charms?”

“No, but who wants to drink if you can’t smoke as well? It doesn’t even taste the same.”

“She noticed a regression in your progress?”

“My voice is fine! The woman can read my bloody mind.”

“Have you tried…”

“I occlument the hell out of her; she still knows.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I am sometimes unclear about your sense of humor. Do you really practice occlumency on your therapist? Does she use legilimency?”

“No.”

He looked at her as if he were trying to determine how much he should say on the subject. She poured him another cup of tea with exactly the amount of milk he liked and produced a box of chocolate biscuits from her bag, a whole sleeve of which she offered to him.

“You are the only person in the world I don’t hate, Miss Granger.”

Even though he was joking, it made her whole week better to hear.

“I lost some magical ability after…the snake bite,” he finally said.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. You are still better than…”

“It didn’t affect simple charms and the like. I can no longer use legilimency. I don’t know if I can still occlument because I haven’t come in contact with a legilimens, thank Merlin.”

“That must be disconcerting. Have you talked to your therapist about it?”

“No. What would I say? _There’s a bit of dark magic I’m missing; can you help me get it back? Still on the side of good, by the way_.”

“Do you think…?” She paused to ponder the theory that had just popped into her head. “Do you think your ability died because _he_ died?”

“Do I think that could be part of it? Yes. But there are plenty of witches and wizards around that use dark magic. Here in Britain there is a fairly substantial taboo against such things, but that’s not the case in other parts of the world.”

“Miss Prague and her ilk?” She tried to say this without a trace of jealousy in her voice, but judging by the smirk he was giving her, she had failed.

“Alla is her name, and yes.”

Alla. She hated Alla.

“Is the mark still visible on your arm?” she asked him, risking the possibility that she had crossed a line.

He took off his cuff link and rolled up his left sleeve. The mark was still there, but it wasn’t raised or swollen. It looked like he was going through the Muggle process of having a tattoo removed, and he still had a few more treatments to go.

“May I?” she asked him quietly. He nodded.

She gently ran her fingers over the mark, caressing it almost. They were looking at each other in the eyes, and they stayed that way for moments until the sounds of students entering the classroom behind them broke the spell. She lightly brushed his arm and both of them snapped out of whatever it was, using their wands to dispose of the lunch garbage.

“Alright, fourth years, there is no need to enter the classroom like hyppogriffs,” she breezed in through the door, surprising the lot.  “Produce parchment and quill and be ready for a quiz.”

 

*********

 

According to her time-table, she had fourteen more study sessions until N.E.W.T.s. Professor Snape had shifted class into lab practice although only four of them were actually taking the test. Susan, William, and Luna had opted out, as none of them were planning a career that would hinge on a Potions test. Katrina was hoping to go abroad to further her education, Hermione and Neville were applying to university in Britain, and Hannah was planning on enrolling in a magical culinary program in London. This did not require Potions mastery, but she and Neville had become quite close, and she was mostly completing the challenge for moral support.

They were expected to brew two simple potions completely on their own with no instructions, and two more complex potions according to elaborate specifications. Professor Snape had compiled a master list he assured them all of the potions would come from. They had methodically tackled each one in class and Hermione and sometimes Neville and Hannah had practiced them outside of class as well. Hermione could brew all of them in rapid succession; Hannah would probably pass easily, and Neville was getting better.

She was in the two-week study mode. Her daily activities hadn’t changed much; she was still devoting at least an hour a day to each subject, but she was infinitely more stressed.

“May I mention the fact that you would probably be better off cutting your study time in half and making sure you had eight hours of sleep each night and three good meals?” Professor Snape asked her as he set a cup of tea at her desk beside the Arithmancy workbook she had found in a storage closet.

“I just have to be doing something or I feel like I’m failing. Believe me, once I finish the exams, I will settle down for a few days before I start panicking about the results.”

“And when they arrive and you have been accepted to university?”

“Then I will have three or four weeks of calm before I start obsessing about not failing out.”

“I’m looking forward to those windows,” he said dryly.

“Me, too!”

She made a count-down calendar above the tea corner and every night made a big, red X with her wand.

There were two days of N.E.W.T.s; the last Thursday and Friday in May. She had Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and History on Thursday, and Potions and Herbology on Friday. Professor Snape was covering her Friday classes. On Wednesday night, he said good night early and implored her to do the same. She graded the last of the assignments and packed her bag. Attached to the side pocket of her satchel was a tiny green note, folded about eight times. She undid and undid, until the words appeared.

_M.G.,_

_You astound me, dear girl._

_P.S._

 

*********

 

She slept fitfully the night before the first testing day. She was the earliest person at breakfast and ate before any of the rest of the staff arrived, and appeared at her designated testing room thirty minutes before time to begin. There were only a handful of people taking each test this year, and this calmed her nerves. The Arithmancy was easier than what she had practiced, she could have translated the runes in her sleep, history was open-ended, and she took the opportunity to cite Professor Krueger. The day flew by.

Professor Snape was exactly as he always was at dinner. It’s not as though she expected him to embrace her in front of the school, but she was hoping for a secret smile, or perhaps a hand brush under the table. There was nothing of the sort.

“You weren’t at breakfast,” he said.

“I was a little nervous.”

“3:01, by the way.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Doubt all you want, Miss Granger. It’s puts me as the high score for this week. You can read about it on Saturday.”

“We’ll see.”

“Stop reciting potion ingredients in your head and eat your dinner,” he said.

“How do you know....”

“Am I wrong? Look, Longbottom appears to be in worse shape than you do.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

She missed breakfast with him again in the morning. The Herbology N.E.W.T. was the hardest written test so far. Her brain went blank for a moment and she was on the verge of panic when it all clicked. The practical portion was ridiculously simple. She had to go straight to Potions lab. The testing was staggered, so it was just her and the examiner--a kind, older woman, who was very encouraging. The instructionless potions were both ones she had practiced countless times and had even taught this year. She breathed slowly and efficiently and finished under the allotted time.

Her next potion was the Pulchritudo straight out of the Advanced book. She could see the page in her head. At the fourteenth step, she adjusted the fire to the exact shade of lilac. The potion came out perfectly.

The second was an inorganic from the mastery book. She hadn’t practiced this one as much because the ingredients were dear, but she had brewed it enough to relax and be terribly methodical. This potion behaved as well. She took a huge sigh, shook her examiner’s hand and prepared herself for the last challenge.

She had two hours to write out her Potions essay. She peeked at the question, and almost started crying. It was on evaporation theory, a subject she and Professor Snape had discussed for hours this year. She was afraid of falling into the trap of only writing his thoughts and opinions. She thought about the areas in which they disagreed. She wrote a strong thesis to begin her own argument, and carefully went through all of the evidence starting with the weakest and ending with the strongest. She was finishing her conclusion at the fifteen-minute warning. She took her time to craft the perfect last sentence; her final sentence as a student of Hogwarts. She signed her name proudly at the bottom and turned it in. Neville was still writing. She put her hand on her heart as a silent good luck and left the room.

 

*********

 

“How did the classes go?” She asked Professor Snape at dinner. He was in a recalcitrant mood.

“Nothing I haven’t done thousands of times, Miss Granger.”

“I know. Thank you, by the way.”

“What did you expect us to do, cancel classes because you couldn’t be there to teach?”

“No, Sir. Are you going back to the dungeon after dinner?”

“Yes.”

“How long do you plan to grade?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Will you be done by nine? I have a surprise for you.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“So nine is okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“How was the puzzle this morning, you haven’t mentioned it.”

“3:11.”

“Pity,” she said.

There was a massive bash at Ravenclaw Tower that had started early in the afternoon. Professor Flitwick had lifted the contraband restriction for one night. Most of the seventh years were leaving in the morning to be back in a month for graduation. Of course Hermione had to stay because she had weeks left teaching Potions. Anyway, she had nowhere else to go. Neville was staying to work in the greenhouse. Hermione had a few sips of champagne and toasted with Neville and Luna. Ginny aggressively ignored her, which was fine. She hugged the others at 8:55, and gathered a box to take to the dungeon.

He was still working when she arrived and insisted on finishing. She grabbed a stack of parchments over his protest and marked them herself. Finally, he appeared in the doorway.

“So, Miss Granger.”

“So, Professor.”

“Are you going to milk this for another hour, or can we get on with it? I would like to sleep at some point tonight.”

“I was thinking about your problem.”

“Which problem is that?”

“Having your favorite drinks ruined by lack of tobacco.”

“I see. And you have a solution?” There was the tiniest of smiles creeping over his face.

“I think I might. What if you tried a new drink that had no associations with smoking?”

“That’s intriguing. What do you suggest?”

She opened the box and pulled out a small bottle of vodka.

“And I have orange juice, cranberry juice, grapefruit juice, and to keep it somewhat grounded in the wizarding world, wait for it,” she pulled out the last miniature bottle, “pumpkin juice!”

“Amazing, Miss Granger.”

“I know.”

“Shall we take the box to the garden?” he suggested.

“I think that would be a very good idea,”

She repacked it quickly. Professor Snape pulled some small flasks from the cabinet carried them in both hands. The garden was chilly, but there were buds beginning to pop on the trees. Spring weather was eminent. He cast a charm that warmed her immediately anyway.

“What can I make you?” she asked him.

“I’m not overly fond of sweet juice, so I’ll take a vodka pumpkin and a shot on the side.”

“Absolutely. I’m going to try one of each.” She poured his drink in a small flask with a generous shot and another shot in its own flask. She poured all four of hers with about a teaspoon of vodka in each one.

“Don’t overdo it on the alcohol,” he commented on her drinks.

“I would love to sit in your garden and not make a bloody drunken fool of myself for once.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

He pulled out a chair for her at the table.

“I have one more trick,” she said. She pulled her wand and pointed it at two chairs. They transfigured into a bench with a high back. “Have a seat, Professor.” She moved the table so their drinks were in reach. When he had sat down, she sat right next to him with her back against his chest and her head just under his chin. She stretched her legs aside so they filled the rest of the bench. She let her weight settle into him and let herself truly relax for the first time in weeks.

She felt a pulling at the bottom of her plait.

“What are you doing?” She asked him.

“Shake your hair out, Miss Granger,” he handed her the band and ribbon.

She undid the braid and sank back against him. He put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

“May we talk about my Potions essay now?” she asked.

“By all means.”


	12. Chapter 12

**June 1999**

**Severus**

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been as anxious as he was just then waiting in the dungeon for her to arrive. He was dressed in black for the graduation ceremony and festivities after. He’d had the tailor make him a black shirt identical to the white ones he wore every day so he would look formal without resorting to putting on all of the old vestments again that he hadn’t missed at all.

She was rebelliously planning to wear all black, too, a position he vociferously disapproved of. It was tradition that the graduates dressed in their house colours. Even the Hufflepuffs in their screaming yellow robes that only flattered about one in twenty-five of them always complied. She had shown a whim of iron and behaved the petulant child at the suggestion that it wouldn’t kill her to don red robes.

Ever since she had received her N.E.W.T. results one couldn’t tell her a thing. She had been so nervous leading up to the breakfast when they finally arrived she could hardly put a bite of food in her mouth. She had been useless at the puzzle and in any conversation deeper than _would you please pass the mustard_ , and even that one had to ask twice.

To her credit, her teaching hadn’t suffered. He had offered to assist her with the fifth year class preparing for their O.W.L.s, and she had graciously accepted. They had worked side-by-side for the last three weeks. She acted as if he had saved her, but honestly he had been compelled to do it because he suspected that most of them were going to sail through to advanced, and he wanted to be able to take partial credit when they sat in his sixth year class in the new term.

That fateful morning she was ignoring a perfectly lovely cup of tea in front of her while he prattled on about how close Slytherin had come to winning the quidditch against Ravenclaw, and what a true underdog story it was. She was nodding politely looking at the sky as owls started approaching. Quite suddenly and unabashedly she had gripped his hand, and at that moment he realized she was staring at Longbottom’s owl dropping a letter at _his_ lap, and not the owl currently depositing one, along with the newspaper, on hers.

She stood up from her seat, letter and newspaper falling, still holding his hand as she watched the pitiful boy open the seal with shaking hands. Longbottom looked down and let out a whoop, leaping from his seat. Miss Granger followed in kind, jumping and whooping, and pulling Snape up by his hand as Longbottom reached for Miss Abbott, took her in his arms, and planted a kiss on her mouth quite inappropriate for the Great Hall.

It was only then that Miss Granger, Hermione, sat and addressed her own letter with shaking hands. She broke the seal, and a sea of Os revealed itself. He imagined her little silver otter swimming happily among them.

“Shocking,” he said as dryly as he could manage with his heart in his throat.

“Quite,” she replied and took his hand again, squeezing it under the table.

Since that morning, though, she had become Josephine Krueger the second in the boldness of her opinions and conclusions. Most of her ire was directed at Hogwarts the institution, and specifically at Gryffindor House, resulting in her refusal to wear the colours.

“Such black and white thinkers. I can’t imagine what the Sorting Hat was about, really.”

“Miss Granger.”

“I mean what do I have in common with…”

“Perhaps it’s the tendency to throw yourself into a situation because you think it’s right without pondering the consequences. Or perhaps it’s being willing to give up everything for a cause you find worthy, or more accurately, a cause people you love find worthy because heaven forbid they face certain death alone. I’m just speculating.”

So now he waited for her in the dungeon nervously contemplating not only his last stand regarding her graduation attire, but also her impending departure the next morning.

She stormed in moments later in admittedly elegant black. She had been determined to wear her hair in a twist at the back of her head, but he had won that battle at least, and without using lion imagery that was so obvious, yet seemed to elude her tonight. She had truly been at war with the hair, he could tell. Instead of a curly mass, it was thick and mostly straight to the ends which coiled in large curls just below her shoulders.

“I need a drink,” she proclaimed. “You look wonderful, Professor.”

“You look inappropriate, Miss Granger.”

“Are we _really_ going to do this again?” she asked as he popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and poured two perfect glasses, the old-fashioned kind with the wide bowls, not the lesser flutes. He handed her a glass.

“To Hogwarts’s top graduate in…probably ever…no matter how she tries to demean the occasion.”

“Cheers,” she replied, clinked his glass, and drank half of hers in one go. “This is lovely,” she admitted, leaning in quite close and fingering the green and silver silk stole he had draped around his left shoulder and clasped with a silver S pin at his right hip. He used to have a silver snake closure, but now that was out of the question.

She brought her hand to his right shoulder where he had pinned tiny rosettes from Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor.

“What on earth, Professor?”

“It’s the first year in my career that all of my Potions students who took their N.E.W.T.s made at least an Acceptable. I think I shall limit spaces to four in the future; it worked out well. And just to avoid a strop later, I gave the Potions award to Miss Fitzgerald and her E. I’m sure you’ll win the rest. I didn’t want to appear biased.”

“Because you are famous for your Gryffindor bias,” she pouted. “And I won’t win Herbology.”

“But I’m sure you will be thrilled for your Gryffindor brother. In that spirit, open this,” he handed her a medium-sized white box that had been sitting the right hand drawer of the teacher desk there in the dungeon classroom. She took it with a suspicious look, opened it gingerly, and put aside the paper.

“Ooooooh, it’s beautiful!” She took it out of its box and laid it on the desk. It was a stole he’d had made for her. Instead of draping one shoulder, it was to be worn over both. It was more feminine than his, which he feared might make her hate it upon sight, but he had wanted to avoid them looking like the Slytherin/Gryffindor twins. Her stole was red silk with a golden lion embroidered on one end, and a gold braid to drape across her shoulders.

“If nothing else, you can pretend it’s a tribute to the land of your birth.”

“That’s exactly what I will do,” as she put it around her shoulders and embraced him.

“I’m not finished,” he said, breaking away and presenting her with a smaller white box.

“You didn’t have to, sir.” She opened the box and gasped.

“They will match your poppy.”

There it was, decorating the lowest neckline he had ever seen on her, or at least ever noticed. He had raided his memory for an image of her at the Yule Ball years ago and had been frustratingly unsuccessful. He knew she had attended with Mr. Krum because it had been all anyone would talk about, but he had no memory of her actually being there.

Tonight, though, the black robe, looking suspiciously like a slightly transfigured dress that Muggle women might wear to a fancy party, was cut low enough in front that the tops of her breasts were visible. They were covered now by the stole he suddenly felt like a genius supplying. No one else needed to gaze upon them tonight with that poppy nestled between.

He had seen glimpses of the poppy when she had unfastened her tie and unbuttoned an extra button once in a while at the end of the work day. He had seen it more frequently leading up to N.E.W.T.s when he was more likely to be in the dungeon during the weekends helping her prepare.

He had spent more time speculating about the necklace and who had given it to her than he would ever admit. It was clearly a war remembrance poppy, a Muggle invention. He would suspect she had bought it for herself if he wasn’t aware of the state of her finances. She had lost her parents before the war, so it couldn’t be from them. He would bet his life Weasley would never have imagined it. Arthur Weasley was a possibility, but Snape doubted he was Muggle savvy enough to make that choice. He was out of theories.

She held the objects to her neck, and sure enough, they were a match.

“I’ve never…no one has ever given me such…”

They were golden combs for her hair, encrusted with rubies flecked with tiny onyxes like her necklace, a matching field of poppies.

“Can you…will you put them in my hair? I have it pinned over here…” She asked him.

She had taken one side of her hair and pinned it above her ear. He was wishing at that moment he had thought of earrings, but perhaps that would be gilding the lily.

“I will try.” He took the combs and placed them through her hair, gently to her scalp where pins had been concealed to hold it up. “Your necklace, though, where…?”

“Harry gave it to me for my last birthday.”

“Potter gave you the poppy?”

“I’m sure he bought it before I broke up with Ron. There was nothing scandalous…”

“How did he know?”

“He grew up in a Muggle home, Professor, no matter how…unfortunate it was.”

He thought of the Dursleys and felt a pang of searing shame.

“Good for Potter,” he said quietly. He stood back and looked at the effect of the combs. She looked like a star from the old films his father used to watch on the telly.

“Your necklace wasn’t the only inspiration for that gift. I have something else, Miss Granger, but before I show them to you, I must say that you may not wear them tonight, are we agreed?”

“Of course! You have done too much…”

“Nonsense.” He handed her another small box and she pulled out similar combs, but these were obviously older and were silver encrusted with emeralds.

“Oooooooh, I want to wear these! I love the gold ones, but these, Sir?”

“They were my mother’s.”

“Oh, Professor.”

“Please don’t cry, Miss Granger. It would be a mess.” She was wearing makeup around her eyes for the first time he could remember.

“I won’t cry,” she said into his shoulder where she had planted herself.

“I don’t know that she received them for her graduation, but I suspect she did. I’ve been going through…items in my family home and found them a while back.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he broke their embrace before it became too sentimental.

“I have one more thing, and it’s rather silly, but I hope you will indulge me.” He pulled out a sky-blue mug from the desk. The mug had the black initials of the university on it.

“I was wondering if you would take this one and leave the H mug at the tea corner. I’ve become accustomed to seeing it there, and the black one would look so solitary without it.”

“Of course, Sir. Should I shrink it to match?”

“No, I like the way it towers over the black, clearly in charge.” He walked to the supply closet and pulled out a mirror they used to test condensation in the lab. “Please look at yourself, Miss Granger,” he held out the mirror, and she took it. He moved behind her so he could see the reflection as well. “You look perfectly appropriate and still elegant. Not every moment needs to be a protest.”

She looked beautiful in truth, but he didn’t say it.

“You’re right. What can I say, Professor Snape, you’re right as always.”

“We should probably head up.”

“Do we have to? There are so many people I don’t want to see, and the ones I do want to see won’t be there.”

“My mother died two and a half months before my graduation,” he told her quietly.

She looked at him with such concern…and maybe affection.

“And your father?”

“Had no idea or any inclination to attend. Lily’s father was there; he was the only one who was truly happy for me. My fellow Slytherins…weren’t a warm bunch. I didn’t really have friends in other houses. I won the Potions award and Herbology. That made it okay, I suppose.”

She took in a sustaining breath, and then she grabbed his hand and entwined her fingers in his, and they started out of the dungeon.

Ginny Weasley in head-to-toe red was their first sight in the foyer, and he realized immediately a primary reason Hermione had balked at wearing the red robes. Ginny was surrounded by a pack of Weasleys, who stared at Hermione and him as they walked through the corridor. He had dropped her hand before they had reached the top of the stairs, too cowardly to make that kind of entrance, but he supposed they made quite a pair.

Potter, to his credit, Snape thought begrudgingly, came over immediately and threw his arms around Hermione.

“You look gorgeous! Wow!”

That was a bit much.

Potter stepped back and offered his hand, “Professor, you look so well. I’m…well, I’m thrilled to see you looking…recovered.”

That Potter had seen him so un-recovered still rankled. He shook the hand Potter offered.

“Potter. Congratulations on your…career training. Miss Granger tells me it’s going well.”

“Yes, sir. I will be sworn in next week.”

“That is an admirable accomplishment.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Hermione was puffed up as proud as a mother bird at their civility.

_Don’t become used to it._

Potter returned to his girlfriend, and Hermione led Snape over to Longbottom and Miss Abbott, quite a sight in his scarlet and her canary.

“I have to meet the faculty in the Great Hall, but I will find you at the reception,” he muttered in her ear. “Mr. Longbottom. Miss Abbott,” he said as he turned to leave. Hermione followed him and planted a tiny kiss on the back of his right shoulder that made him freeze and then struggle to regain his composure as he entered the Great Hall.

“Severus, you look fantastic!” Poppy was waiting for him at the head table. She almost always took her meals in the hospital wing, so he rarely saw her in the Hall. She wore traditional Ravenclaw that made her blue eyes sparkle.

“Poppy, you as well.”

The Hall was decorated in the four colours, but efforts had been made to combine them wherever possible, which made it look more like a carnival with stripes everywhere. They would get better at this, he supposed.

The families of the graduates came in first, sitting strictly in their house designations whenever possible.

The underclassmen marched in and sat at their tables. The Headmistress rose. She was wearing a black robe with a tartan across her chest made from red, blue, yellow, and green wool, with a very subtle golden lion fastening it.  Everyone stood and turned to see the graduates process in, Hermione at the front as top graduate.

It was the smallest class in years, but considering all of the circumstances, it was a miracle that there were about forty graduates.

It was the Head Girl and Boy, not the top graduate who gave the speeches, so he had to endure Miss Weasley’s rather pompous and not so subtly self-congratulatory diatribe on school, honour, and duty, hitting every Gryffindor excess. Throughout the speech he locked eyes with Hermione, who admirably did not roll her eyes once, a feat he couldn’t claim. Mr. Serrano was quiet and more brief, and Snape was pleased to be thanked by name.

When it was time for awards, he rose to pin the Potions medal on Miss Fitzgerald’s green robe, intensely regretting he didn’t give it to the person who had earned it. When Pomona called Longbottom to the dais to give him the Herbology award, he stood proudly as she pinned him and then offered her his hand. She pulled him into her chest and embraced him with tears in her eyes. He responded as a gentleman, and thanked her graciously for all of her help. Then he turned to Professor Snape and offered his hand, which Snape shook cordially.

“I can’t begin to thank you, Professor.”

“Mr. Longbottom. Congratulations on your university admission,”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Most of the rest of the awards were the Hermione show, as predicted. The applause from the families was muted, with the exception of Potter. Longbottom, Abbott, and Miss Lovegood cheered her from the graduate section, and the younger students were enthusiastic in their applause as well. Snape glared at the family section and clapped loudly and without shame each time her name was called. He noticed the rest of the faculty responded in kind, and Hagrid, who was also rarely in the Great Hall, picked her up when she came forward to accept one of the prizes and spun her in his arms.

The Headmistress gave a short speech after the fourth time she had called Hermione’s name, explaining to the crowd what responsibility Hermione had accepted this year, and how hard the whole faculty had worked to ensure the new era of Hogwarts was a success, a not so veiled jab at the parental naysayers she still heard from daily.

Hermione managed to be gracious as she accepted the last award, history from Professor Binns, who called her a “once a millennium mind.”

“He should know,” she muttered to Snape as she passed him on her way back to her seat.

The Headmistress closed the ceremony with great circumstance and dismissed the underclassmen to their dorms. The Hall was transfigured into a ballroom with refreshments lining the walls and room for a band and dancing.

He walked over to the drink table, grabbed two glasses of champagne, and found Hermione.

Longbottom was the chief photographer, and he snapped dozens of pictures, including ones of Snape that he would have rather declined. He and Hermione retreated to a corner where they could observe the whole scene in chairs protected from the crowd.

Ron Weasley brought a girlfriend, a pretty enough young blond woman whom he never let go of. The Weasley bunch was raucous, of course, drawing every eye to them. The oldest three brothers and the partly-Veela wife came over to congratulate Hermione and shake his hand.

“Ermione, you have made a fine barrel of feesh,” the young woman said, though she hugged Hermione as if she were a beloved friend, which seemed to be the case. Fleur Weasley was easily the most beautiful woman Snape had ever seen, even in her current state, pregnant up to her eyes.

“I know Fleur, will you forgive me?” Hermione responded, still hugging her almost sister-in-law.

“It’s not for us to forgive,” Charlie Weasley said as he embraced Hermione. “I’m sure you had reasons.”

“You screwed the pooch on this one, ‘Mione,” George Weasley had her in a side hug. “Not that I blame you.”

“Ron is a prat,” Bill said as he took his turn hugging Hermione.

“Beel, don’t say that!” Fleur smacked her husband in the arm.

“Anyway, it looks like he’s moved on. Maybe it will be okay someday,” Hermione said in good humor.

“Maisy,” Fleur said and rolled her eyes. “Not much in the attic,” she said, pointing to her head.

“Fleur,” Bill said in a warning tone through suppressed laughter as they left Snape and Hermione.

“He looks happy, though.” she said in Snape’s ear. The band had started and all of a sudden it was difficult to talk. They watched as couples started filling the dance floor. It was a wizard band, of course, and he hoped she didn’t expect him to dance to this rubbish.

After a few songs, Potter came over and nervously asked her to dance. Snape wondered if the boy was trying to be deferential to him. Anyway, Hermione accepted without looking at Snape, though she did let her one hand linger on his knee before she stood up and was led to the dance floor by Potter. They danced to a horrifying Warbeck cover, and she returned after the song ended. He wished he could turn on some Yazoo and dance with her properly. He sipped his champagne and replaced the noise in the hall with the voice of Alison Moyet.

Hermione interrupted his reverie.

“Can we please go back to the dungeon and finish the champagne there?” She implored him.

“Are you sure you’ve had enough reception?”

“I’m completely sure.”

He took her glass from her to put on the empties table, while she straightened her robes, preparing to leave. Just then the entire Weasley entourage started approaching them.

“Oh, bugger,” she said in his ear and clamped on to his elbow.

He stood there with both glasses in front of him defensively.

Arthur stood as the sentinel with the rest of the group behind him, including matching sour-faced Molly and Ginny, Potter full of hope, Weasley looking defiant and gripping on to his girlfriend, who was glaring at Hermione. George and the older ones looked sheepish in the back.

“Hermione, congratulations, I am so proud of you!” Arthur Weasley grabbed her in a bear hug. “Off to university, I hear? That is so wonderful, dear. So wonderful.”

“Thanks, Mr. Weasley.” She took a breath and addressed them. “Thank you all. I’m very sorry. I miss you all.” There were mumbles, and Potter came to her rescue again.

“Love you, Hermione.”

“We were just about to leave…” Hermione said.

“Oh, _we_ were?” Ginny’s voice rose above the crowd.

“Yes,” Snape said. “Good night, Mr. Potter, Arthur.”  He looked at the older ones, not in an unfriendly way and ignored the younger ones. He put his arm around her shoulders and they left, glasses still in his hand.

“ _Mr_. Potter?” She said incredulously as soon as they had reached the foyer.

“Don’t expect it again.”

She was clutching him around the middle with both arms as they walked down the stairs towards the dungeon. Some drunk Slytherins gaped at them on the stairs.

“Professor!” They shouted to him, ignoring her.

“Enough noise in the corridor. Take it back to the party or to your common room.” There was no sign of them budging, and he didn’t really care.

They burst into the classroom where they had left the champagne from earlier in the evening. She took one of the flutes in his hand and filled it to the top, starting to drink it down.

“Miss Granger,” he said.

She put out one finger to indicate hold a minute, finished draining the glass and poured another for her and one for him.

“Tepid, but nice,” she clinked his glass. Much better than the cheap reception stuff anyway.

He perched himself on top of the teacher desk as she pushed a student one from the front row close to it and slumped into it. He could see that she had fought back tears, probably several times that evening, and her perfectly lined in black eyes were now smudgy. It was impossibly sexy; in spite of the unfortunate way she had achieved the look. She thrust a foot at him, and he caught it and removed a black high-heeled shoe. He massaged the foot through the sheer, black stockings, and she moaned. She let him continue for a moment, and then offered the other one. They were staring at each other, not saying a word.

Finally, she put her foot down and stood, walking two steps and positioning herself so that his legs were straddling her, and she put her hands on the desk on either side of him. She stared at him, daring him to kiss her. When he didn’t, she moved in and brushed his lips with hers.

“Miss Granger,” he said and pulled back.

“Just…”

“No.” he said. He took each of her arms in his hands and held her away.

She broke away from him, diving in again, this time kissing his neck on the non-scarred side. She was pressed flat against him, surely feeling his straining cock boring into her belly. He wrapped his arms around her back and stayed there for just a moment, breathing in her hair and storing in his memory how every part of her felt against him. Then he broke away from her and walked to the chair behind the desk.

“Why? Why won’t you just…please! I leave tomorrow!” She was pleading with him across the desk.

“I know, Miss Granger, just stop for a moment, please.”

She slumped back into the student desk.

“Am I just a student? Just a friend to you?” she said with insecurity that made his heart ache.

“No, Miss Granger,” he said quietly. “You are a great deal more, which is why I...”

“But I want it. I want you, Sir, so much. You would not be taking advantage of me.”

“You are nineteen. You _are_ a student, or were until an hour ago, and you are leaving for your new life tomorrow.”

“I’m not exactly nineteen. My whole third year I used a time-turner.”

“I’ve heard the time-turner argument.” There had been a dispute in the Headmaster’s office about when she actually would come of age. “I find that theory absurd, though. You’re not significantly older just because you took some extra Arithmancy classes, Miss Granger.”

“It was worth a shot.” She gave him a little smile. “Noble, so noble. Do you ever become tired of being the most noble man in Britain?”

“It’s not being noble. Don’t you see?” He implored her.

“No!” She was equally emphatic.

“I couldn’t stand it if we were together tonight and then never again. I couldn’t bear it. And you don’t know what’s going to happen when you get to university. You might and probably will meet someone within a fortnight.”

“And Alla could owl you tomorrow begging you to take her back! Or someone else! We don’t know what will happen. Why deny ourselves something we both clearly want?”

“It’s not over, Miss Granger. My dearest hope, my deepest wish is that it’s just beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to write to me. I will write you back. If by autumn you haven’t met anyone, and you still want to be with me, we can discuss it then.”

“Do I have a say?”

“Of course. You can end the correspondence at any time.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s the way it’s going to be.”

“You could just take me to bed now and we could start this plan tomorrow,” she said and smiled at him.

“I would love nothing more. But it’s not going to happen,” he teased her just a bit. “Delayed gratification, Miss Granger. There is truly nothing like it.”

“You are infuriating; do you know that?”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“May I kiss you good night? Kiss you good bye?”

He stood from the desk, walked to her, and offered his hand. She took it and stood up. He brought her close to him, pressed her against him, and whispered to her.

“You’re leaving after breakfast?”

“Yes, Neville and I are taking a portkey to London at eight.”

“I won’t see you in the morning.”

“I know.”

“Good bye, Miss Granger.” He brought his face from her hair and kissed her gently, closing his eyes.

“Good bye, Professor. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

She pulled away from him, gathered up her boxes, taking special care of the box with his mother’s combs in it, hooked the handle of the new mug on her index finger in one hand and her shoes in the other, and walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPpHLK4SHt8


	13. Chapter 13

**July 1999**

**Hermione and Severus**

 

1 July, 1999

Dear P.S.,

I’m sorry it’s taken me a few days to write. I’ve been going non-stop, and I have so much to tell you.  Know that you have been continually in my thoughts, even if I didn’t have a moment to sit down and put them on parchment.

We arrived in London on Saturday morning as planned and dropped our trunks at the home of Neville’s Gran. We have stayed there the last two nights, and I’m not sure I would be able to stand it much longer. She loves him aggressively and controllingly, and it’s all a bit much.

We continued to the university Saturday afternoon. I had made an appointment with an agent who rents flats, and she had several to show us.

After touring them, we settled on a two-bedroom place that is more expensive than I had planned.  Because of that, I was nervous signing the contract, but it was by far the best choice. The others were really one bedroom flats that had been awkwardly divided and allowed very little privacy. Since I suspect Hannah will be a frequent third roommate, at least on the weekends, a traditional two-bedroom was the way to go. I hope that at least one of them has learned to cast a reliable silencing charm.

The flat is in the wizard section; this was really the only option for Neville, and has a magical kitchen, which Hannah will probably use more than either of us. I’m feeling rather conflicted about living in the wizard streets but would no doubt feel out of place in the Muggle section as well. Nothing about it feels like a home at this point, but I expect that will change with time.

We were able to register for the autumn term without incident. My grants from the university and from the Ministry are covering all but some living expenses. Neville immediately found a job at the greenhouses, surprise surprise. They snapped him right up. I applied for a position as a research assistant in the Arithmancy department, and I’m waiting to hear. If that doesn’t come through, I’ll pound the pavement and wear someone down until I find something.

We’re moving into the flat tomorrow. It was a fortunate time to be looking; most people are moving out at the moment. The flat is unfurnished, but Gran is supplying essentials. I didn’t think about that when I was dreaming of moving here. I don’t have a bed, or a place to put my clothes and books, or a spoon. At least I have a mug. And thank Merlin for Gran.

In deference to the rules of our “arrangement” (and I put that in quotes not to be belligerent but because I don’t think it’s the appropriate word, but I’m not sure of another), I want to be completely honest with you about how I’m feeling. If we do end up together in the future, surely our bond will be stronger for it. It is for this reason I will write with the following candor.

I felt and continue to feel embarrassed about how we parted Friday night. I quite threw myself at you and was rebuffed as a silly teenaged girl who doesn’t understand the big, adult world. No doubt my pride is wounded, and I have lost trust in my ability to read the room, so to speak, and to know whether advances are welcome. I will further humiliate myself in no uncertain terms: I was (and continue to be) filled with sexual desire for you. However, within that desire is the firm belief of my whole being that you are the only person for me.

If you are still reading and haven’t tossed this in the bin with a sense of relief that you saved yourself from something quite undesirable, I have enclosed some photos of the new flat.

I miss you.

Love,

M.G.

 

5 July, 1999

Dear M.G.,

I write this to you from my family home in Cokeworth. I received your letter at school where I was securing the dungeon and putting up the lab for the summer. I found your labeling system invaluable. I didn’t shut down my quarters completely as I will be back a few times this summer for staff meetings and other responsibilities. In fact, I will be back in about ten days for one such commitment; the Headmistress has asked me to sit in on interviews with potential Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. She asked me to be “less intense” and to show my “compassionate side.” I shall endeavor to try.

The fifth years completed their O.W.L.s on Tuesday without incident. I am cautiously optimistic that I will have a full Advanced class in the new term, and I owe this primarily to you. When I am overrun with sixteen year olds next year, I know to whom I will complain.

I inquired with the Headmistress about securing some bedroom furniture. As we have fewer students, it stands to reason that there would be extras about. She agreed that it would be helpful to reduce the need for so much storage. I have picked out some items that you and Longbottom might find useful and am shipping them today. If they are superfluous, please just send them back to Hogwarts care of myself, and I will put them back in storage.

Your potential job sounds an excellent fit. I can’t imagine that they will pass on you as a research assistant, and I am eager to hear the details in your next letter.

I agree that our “situation” is not ideal. It was with shame and regret that I read of your feelings of embarrassment. I hope now to clear up any misunderstanding you may have. I appreciate your candor and will match it to the best of my best ability.

While we were at the reception watching the others dance, I caught a glimpse of a black strap on your shoulder. Was it attached to a black brassiere? Was the brassiere lace? Was it sheer or opaque? Did it fasten in the back with just one hook and eye? Two? I didn’t feel suspenders on your thighs when you pressed against me. Were the stockings that I rubbed on your feet after I removed your shoes actually tights? Were you wearing knickers under them? If you did, were they black as well? If you did not, what was the condition of your tights when you removed them?

I have pondered these questions as I have wanked in the shower, in my bed, at my desk, and other places I hesitate to mention. I write these words to you from my boyhood bedroom, a true shrine to wanking. I am setting new records; I would make the Saturday Prophet if they printed such statistics with the puzzle results.

If you are still reading this and haven’t chucked it in the bin in relief that you are free from such a mental case, I would like to thank you for the photos of your new flat and would request one in which you appear.

I miss you, darling girl.

Love,

P.S.

 

10 July 1999

Dear P.S.,

Thank you for sending the beautiful furniture. To sleep in a four-poster again has been luxurious. I was in a single all last year, and there were times Crooks and I almost fell out. I feel much better about my bedroom now that my books are organized in the bookcase. The wardrobe is huge as is the bureau. I don’t have nearly enough clothes to fill them, but I have found some great second hand shops.

That leads me to very good news: I was hired for the research assistance job. I am working at the library, but for the arithmancy department. (No one capitalizes school subjects here unless they are already proper nouns, so I will follow suit.) The project I am involved with concerns Muggle technology, specifically the Internet (apparently this is a proper noun) also known as the World Wide Web and the Information Super Highway. Are you familiar with these terms? It is somewhat like a telephone, except it transmits coded data via computer instead of just sound over wires. The professors working on this project are trying to magically write “code” so that it will appear as data on the Internet. My part is to physically enter the data into a computer (using a keyboard) while they are writing this code. If they succeed, they will be able to upload all of the data in seconds that it will take me the rest of the summer (at least) to enter by hand. I’m trying to beat them and register all of the library materials before they perfect the code. I suspect I am destined to lose.

I took keyboarding in my pre-Hogwarts schooling, and it’s amazing to me how much is still there, stored in some little forgotten corner of my brain. I am getting faster every day; today was my fourth day at work. One extraneous issue I am having is that the data that I am entering is the title and author of every book in the library. Everyday there are at least twenty books that I want to take home with me.

Did you go to Muggle school before you entered Hogwarts? I’m very curious about your life, although I know you’re reticent to share some parts of it. Please know that I only ask because I want to really know you (everything about you). I lie awake sometimes with questions swirling around in my head about you: did you have a relationship with your grandparents? What were you interested in as a child? When did you understand what it was like to be a wizard? What was your favorite thing about Hogwarts as a student? What spell, charm, or potion first amazed you?

To clear up some inquiries in your last letter, I would like to let you know that I was wearing knickers under my tights. (Correct guess; I don’t own stockings with suspenders, should I acquire some?) They were in fact black. They weren’t a matching set with the black bra I was wearing (it is lace, one hook), but they are lacy as well. I usually wear more practical cotton knickers: comfortable, hygienic, and available in many colours. Tent life made me appreciate the value of clean, cotton knickers.

To be of further help, I have enclosed said black, lacy knickers. They are clean; I don’t know if that’s good or bad. As I secure them in this package, I can actually hear the voice of my mother saying, “Hermione Jean Granger, you are NOT sending your knickers to a man!” Sorry, Mum.

Also enclosed is a photo of us from the graduation reception. Neville took several of us, but in most of them you are scowling at him. This one, though, he took when we weren’t paying attention. My teeth are horrendous in this picture, but you are breathtakingly handsome, Darling. Your hair is at the perfect length to set off your strong jaw. (Who cut your hair? That person is a genius. It was the first thing I noticed about you when you returned last autumn.) Your eyes are dancing with light, and your lovely smile makes you look so happy. I can’t remember what you said that has me in such a gale of laughter. Perhaps it was when you were talking like Fleur. Barrel of feeeesh, ‘ehuhmiohneeee!

I miss you; write back soon. Having an actual long letter in the Prince’s own hand gives me such a thrill, you have no idea.

Love,

M.G.

 

15 July 1999

Dear M.G.,

I had to read the description of your new job several times before I could begin to understand the project you are working on, and I am still not sure if I do. I even went to the little Cokeworth library to do some research. They have computers there with Internet, and a librarian tried to explain how it works. She let me experiment with it, and the only thing I can determine is that it is mostly a vehicle for pornography. I tried to read a journal article about it, but Muggle science makes my eyes glaze over and my head hurt. It seems fascinating anyway, and perhaps you can instruct me further soon.

Perhaps I would be more apt at it if I’d had a better education as a child, but it was a major point of contention in my house. My father was adamant that I go to school. My mother, who like most pureblood children of her era had been educated at home before she started Hogwarts, didn’t want me at the neighborhood primary school. Every year my father would in enroll me, and I would attend until either some incident happened (a fire, usually), or my mother would just stop taking me, and my father would be too involved in his own misery to notice. I do remember taking typing one year close to the end of my schooling, and I was familiar enough with the Muggle keyboard in the library, so I suppose that stuck. I started reading at a very young age, and I think most of my pre-Hogwarts education was through books although I can’t say I have any specific memories about it, aside from books that were influential.

Both sets of grandparents were opposed to my parents’ marriage; my mother’s from the beginning, and my father’s after they found out my mother was a witch. I had very little contact with either. I have a few memories of my maternal grandmother, I think she cared about me, but it’s very vague. I remember she gave me a small broom when I was five or six. My paternal grandparents disowned my father; I never met them. I have an uncle on my father’s side who has told me a few things about them. All of my grandparents died by the time I was around seven.

I was aware of being a wizard from my earliest memories. I suppose my mother raised me in the culture as well as she could. There was no moment that I had a revelation, which reminds me, I’d like to know what happened when you received your Hogwarts letter. Did Dumbledore come to your house? I know that is the usual protocol with Muggle families.

My favorite thing about Hogwarts was the food, which probably tells you a lot about my childhood. I was amazed by all things potions, of course. But the first time I successfully transfigured my shabby, ill-fitting shoes into a pair of leather boots, I was happy for a week. I’ve enjoyed fashion ever since, perhaps because my clothes were so awful as a child. I’m not sure why my mother especially allowed me to leave the house without properly fitting clothing, but she was mentally ill from the time I was born from what I can ascertain.

How’s this for a cheery letter?

I have already framed the photo you sent. I have very few photographs of myself and never one I’ve liked as much as this one. Please thank Mr. Longbottom for me, and tell him I apologize for being churlish. I’ve spent hours staring at the photo, and I’ve yet to see horrendous teeth, what are you talking about? I think you are right about what I was saying to you. You were very kind to laugh at my sophomoric impersonation. You look stunning; so much so that I keep asking myself, what is this beautiful woman doing with me? An assistant healer at St. Mungo’s called Anabel cut my hair. Next time I am there for therapy, I will find her and thank her.

Who is Crooks, and what is he doing in your bed?

Thank you for the enclosure. I would be happy to receive some of the cotton variety as well. I will leave whether they are clean to your discretion; I won’t complain either way.

I’m sending you a photo of my parents and me in front of our house. You can see the date on the back is 1963, so I am three. I had never seen this until I started going through my parents’ possessions this year. My mother looks relatively happy here, and my father looks sober.

I miss you.

Love,

P.S.

 

 

20 July, 1999

Dear P.S. (Severus),

I love that little boy in the photo. I want to ask him everything about himself. I want to spend the day with him, take him to the park to play, take him to the library and let him check out all the books he wants, and then take him back home and read them all with him. I want to make sure he has enough to eat and proper clothes. I want to protect him.

I can’t think of that boy as a person called Professor Snape. I have started calling you Severus in my head. If that makes you uncomfortable, I will continue to call you Professor Snape, but you’ll be Severus in my head from now on.

Crooks is my cat, short for Crookshanks. He was my gift for my fourteenth birthday. I guess I’ve never talked about him to you? No wonder he looks at me as if I am the most useless person in the world. I won’t send you a picture of my cat, heh. By the way, you know that word you are thinking about now? I hate that word. Years ago, I heard it in a film, and the person who said it had this broad American southern accent, and I found it repulsive. I can’t hear it or think it without cringing. I don’t find any of the words for female genitalia arousing in the least, but that one is the worst. I have strong opinions about this if you would like me to expound.

Professor Dumbledore did hand-deliver my Hogwarts letter and stayed for hours talking to my parents and to me. He brought me a copy of Hogwarts, a History, and I read it several times before school. My parents thought the whole thing was surreal, and I’m not sure they really believed it deep down. They were (are) both very rational. I have a theory that both of them thought they were in a dream any time the subject was brought up, and that they would wake up soon, and that I was at a perfectly normal boarding school. Now that they’re continuing the child-free life that they had resigned themselves to years ago, I hope they enjoyed their brief time with me. I have many regrets.

If you don’t mind discussing it, how did your parents meet? They seem like such an unlikely couple. I think you look like both of them, by the way.

What books influenced you as a child? I have been a Tolkien fanatic from about age eight. My father read me The Hobbit, and then I read The Lord of the Rings trilogy myself, primarily because I couldn’t wait for him. I spent hours on the “quest” studying the Tales of Beetle the Bard, but I probably discovered it too late to appreciate them the way I would have if I had read or been read them as a child.

Most of the pictures of me with my family disappeared when I obliviated their memories in Australia. I had a few in my Hogwarts trunk that survived, but none of the three of us, unfortunately. Here are one with Mum and one with Dad. Notice how happy I am with Mum? That’s because Dad took the picture, and we had an easy relationship. I’m sour in the one with Dad because Mum took the picture and we often butted heads. She probably had just told me to do something I thought was pointless.

I’m still winning at work. I’m up by two-thousand books.

Miss you, Severus (P.S.).

Love,

M.G.

 

 

25 July, 1999

Dear M.G. (Hermione),

You’ve been Hermione in my head since my birthday. By all means call me Severus. I’m so relieved to have this ridiculous name issue decided. I love your given name. The way it floats in my mouth reminds me of ice cream. I don’t care for most desserts, but ice cream is an absolute must. Hermione. Delicious.

While we’re at it, please don’t call me “Sir.” I do not have a school girl fetish; in fact, it’s a turn-off. I hope you aren’t harboring fantasies about uniforms and detentions and mean Professor Snape. If you are, we can talk about it, but it’s not appealing to me.

On the other hand, I want to know all of your strong opinions about the nomenclature of female genitalia. Spare no details. I have a few opinions myself, but I’d like to hear yours first.

I sat in on the first round of interviews today at Hogwarts. Most candidates are former students from before your era who were inspired by the latest conflict to “make a difference.”  The ones with the most promise are from the Office of Auror at the Ministry. I wonder if the real reason they are applying is that the latest generation of Auror has more real world experience (by far) than this group could ever have. I thought about Potter but didn’t mention him in the spirit of compassion. “So since you are apparently intimidated by a teenage boy, how do you think…” Of the two acceptable candidates, I recommended the one I thought would irritate me less as a co-worker.

I’m back at Cokeworth, trying to decide what to do with items I don’t want, but are hard to throw in the bin, like my mother’s ancient cosmetics and my father’s tools. I’ve boxed them and have put them in a holding area for objects on the cusp.

My father was in the RAF during World War II. He was a mechanic; he worked as a machinist when I was growing up. From what I can gather from the very little he told me, what his brother has said, and some records he left, he was in France, was moved back here at Dunkirk, and then went back to France after the invasion. His job was to repair disabled planes after missions. This often involved cleaning human remains out of engines. I suspect years of this and witnessing the awfulness of war on a daily basis is partly responsible for his enduring misery.

He returned to Cokeworth, which is where he grew up, and worked in a factory repairing machines and equipment. For some reason, he and some mates took a trip to the shore over Easter weekend 1959. My mother was one year out of Hogwarts and was attending university in Potions. She and her friends also went to the shore that weekend. Probably because of the sordid nature of their meeting, I don’t know any details. I suppose I could track down some friends of my mother’s, but I’m not that motivated to find out if he took her to dinner before he impregnated her.

She should have returned home and had me there. Her family could have invented a poor, dead father. This is how these things worked back then in my mother’s kind of family. Instead, she traveled to Cokeworth and confronted him in front of his parents. This part I find hard to fathom because he was thirty-nine when I was born. Why did he feel compelled to act as if he were her age? His brother assured me it was true. His parents pressured him to marry her before they knew she was a witch. I doubt he knew either, given his negativity toward magic and our world. At some point, perhaps when it turned out I wasn’t quite right, the truth must have come out.

I can’t imagine why they stayed together all of those years. They weren’t bound in a magical union (you probably have some strong feelings about those); they were both miserable. I suppose my mother’s illness made it difficult for her to act.

My father was only truly horrible when he drank, which became more and more frequent over the years. A lot of the time, he worked endlessly to support us but also to be away from us. I hated him when he was alive; I now mostly pity him. My life would have been different if my mother had never contacted him, but I suspect I wouldn’t be the same person, and perhaps not for the better. Which brings me to some glaring subjects…

You haven’t asked me about being a Death Eater (I despise that term) or about Lily Evans Potter. These topics are not off limits; ask me whatever you are curious about.

I did love Beetle the Bard as a child as well as other wizarding books of childhood you probably aren’t familiar with. Once I attended school, I was introduced to Tolkien and loved his works as well. I’m fairly sure I did little else in my third year of primary school than read Lord of the Rings.

That little girl in the pictures with the curly hair (probably gave your mother fits) and bright Muggle clothes must have been something to behold. I can tell from the looks on both of your parents’ faces that you were their absolute joy. Imagine spending most of your life thinking you would be denied children and then not only being surprised with a baby girl, but finding out that she is remarkable beyond imagination. What a miracle you must have been for them. Even if one could only have eighteen years of that, who would turn it down?

I remain yours if it is your desire,

Severus

 

 

30 July 1999

Dear Severus,

Why did it take us so long to get our names straight? I’ve been summoning the courage for weeks, months to ask you about it. Since your birthday in January? I suppose maintaining a wall of formality between us was wise in lieu of our professional relationship. I probably would have jumped on top of you sooner if I knew I could call you Severus.

Ridiculous or serious first? Delayed gratification, right?

I don’t need to know anything about your experience as a Death Eater (agree completely) because I already know. I always knew you were on our side anyway; I always knew it. At first it was because Professor Dumbledore trusted you implicitly, but it became more than that. Anyway, because of your trial, I know the details. I’m not curious about any of that. I know you.

It’s hard for me to grasp that Lily Evans Potter was a real person once. She is an iconic figure for Harry, and really to the whole community. I get the sense from your letter that she (and perhaps her family?) is part of the reason that you are…grateful isn’t the right word…resigned maybe, with the way your life played out as a child. The pieces you provided Harry of your relationship with Lily showed it as a friendship and to some degree perhaps an unrequited romance with pain on both sides. How did your feelings for her affect your life after her death? What are your feelings about her today?

I’m thinking about her more than I usually do because tomorrow is Harry’s birthday. She was your age, correct? It’s hard to imagine someone as young as you are having a nineteen-year-old son.

Harry invited me to 12 Grimmauld Place for a party tomorrow. They’re celebrating both his birthday and his new job, and I suppose Ron’s as well. I’m going to attend because to miss it would be a slight of our friendship, but I’m dreading it. Neville and Hannah are going with me, and Luna will also be there, and probably people from the Ministry. Maybe it will be the beginning of a thaw between me and Ginny. I’m not at all optimistic about Ron. I’ll tell you all about it in my next letter.

Thank you for what you said about my parents; it reassured me tremendously. I am sad that they will never meet you; you would have enjoyed my father and would have been amused by my mother, though probably annoyed by her as well.

Living with Neville is a daily challenge. Neither of us are any use at all in the kitchen, and if it wasn’t for Hannah filling the refrigerator every weekend, we would probably starve. What makes cooking so much different than brewing a potion? Can you cook? Neville has clearly lived his whole life with someone who picks up for him and reminds him to wipe his nose. That boy is helpless! Muddy boots and clothes everywhere, plants in various stages of growth and transplant, cannot wash a dish. Hannah will have her hands full if she decides to take him on.

I don’t have many possessions except for books, and I have become obsessed with keeping the non-Neville space (really just my bedroom) immaculate. Are you familiar with the Muggle concept of OCD? I can almost hear you laughing, Severus.

I am about one hundred books away from a five-digit lead at work. This will make me all the more bitter when I inevitably lose.

I am deeply troubled by wizarding marriage laws; how did you know? While I understand the appeal of binding one’s soul to another, and this makes more sense to me now than it ever has before, the consequences can be dire. I don’t see it as a gender issue, as no one in my life has terrified me more than Mme. Lestrange. It’s an abuse issue. It’s an issue of adultery, amicable divorce, community property, child custody, and probably much more. I’ve only started to think about this, but I can see it as something I would like to work on in depth eventually.

I am not turned on by the innocent schoolgirl/wicked Potions master thing either, but it is THE number one comment I have received from my female peers since I’ve been friends with you. You could do very, very well if you ever decided to monetize it.

As to the naming of genitalia…

I first offer you this disclaimer: the majority of my sexual education came second hand from Lavender Brown as she sat on a little stool in front of her vanity grooming the pubic hair on either side of her knickers with her wand and talking about Ron.

My conclusions are no doubt influenced by this but also represent hours of scholarly thought.

Scientific names are appropriate in instructional but not sexual context. For example:

Most women achieve orgasm through stimulation of the clitoris.

Heterosexual vaginal intercourse begins when a man penetrates a woman’s vagina with his erect penis.

 Both of those uses are perfectly acceptable, but I don’t think the words work well in a sexual context. (I will let you construct your own sentence to test this.)

The abbreviation of clitoris is often used in sexually explicit talk, and it seems to work fine for many. Too me it is almost as problematic as the word I referenced in my previous letter. Avoiding the word and its abbreviation during sex is preferable. Actions, not words on this front.

The word “cunt” is an example of sexually explicit slang for vagina. While it is a marked improvement for the word I will not name, I fail to see the need for it in most situations.

“Would you kindly remove this banana from my cunt?” is just as clearly expressed by “Would you kindly remove this banana?” I doubt the woman has a banana in more than one orifice at a time.

This leads me to the conclusion that there is one sexual scenario in which the word “cunt” would be helpful:

You may put the banana in my cunt, but please refrain from putting it in my arse. However, I think “vagina” works just as well in that example.  How about:  You may fuck my cunt but not my arse.

On the other hand, I find the word “cock” lovely, expressive, arousing, and useful. I’m not ready to draw conclusions, but I suspect this is the fault of the patriarchy.

Your thoughts?

It is indeed,

Your Hermione


	14. Chapter 14

**August 1999**

**Hermione and Severus**

 

4 August, 1999

Dear Hermione,

How was the party? I admire you for going; I would have skipped it. I’m not as brave as you are.

I’ve been thinking about Lily more lately as well, and what she would think about her son being nineteen. The last time I saw her alive we were both nineteen. Although she didn’t realize it at the time, she was already pregnant or would be very soon.

The memories I provided Potter of Lily were accurate, but they weren’t the whole story. I think it was clear that I behaved appallingly toward her during that incident in our fifth year. I apologized several times. I pleaded with her. Eventually she was civil to me but formal and detached.

Lily’s mother was diagnosed with cancer in the summer between fifth and sixth years, and died just after Christmas in our sixth year. Lily dramatically changed from girl to young woman during this time. She would leave school almost every weekend to be with her father, who was devastated, as you can imagine. Both Lily and her sister married very young, and it’s hard not to speculate that their choices were quite connected to their mother’s death.

I saw Lily that last time after the sudden death of her father about eighteen months after we had graduated from Hogwarts. She had already been married for almost a year at that point. James Potter was working for the Order and couldn’t be reached when Lily’s father died. Lily was by herself (not counting her awful sister and brother-in-law, the infamous Dursleys) at the funeral. I came home from university to pay respects—as I’ve mentioned before Henry Evans was one of the very few people in my life at the time that was genuinely, unselfishly kind to me.

Lily and I went to a pub after the funeral and had too much to drink, but we also finally were Lily and Severus—Evans and Sev—again, able to talk frankly but with great mutual affection. Because of the drinking and her grief, we ended up having a quasi-sexual encounter, my first.

When I heard about her baby and counted back the months I had a moment of magical thinking, wondering if it could possibly be mine. Since I ejaculated in my pants and was separated from Lily by about fifteen layers of clothing, conception seems unlikely. Of course one look at her son clears paternity right up.

I was grief-stricken and guilt-ridden when she was killed. It is in no small part my fault, and neither those facts nor the feelings that accompany them will ever change.

I have not; however, been endlessly pining for Lily since then. I’ve had, as you know, attachments over the years. What I haven’t felt since Lily until you, is love. Please understand, you are not a substitute for her. You do have many things in common. If I were feeling particularly generous to Potter, I might point out to him that through his friendship with you, he has had a glimpse at how special his mother was. You are both highly intelligent and loyal, and you both represent the values of your house well.

Where you differ is in the choices you made when faced with very similar situations. Lily turned to James Potter (whom she loved fiercely in spite of her small indiscretion), and when she was still unfulfilled with her life, she decided to have a baby. How easy it would have been for you to marry Weasley and settle in with his family, who obviously love you as a daughter. Instead you decided to pursue your own path, even though it cost you dearly.

Enough.

I am back at Hogwarts though I’m not planning to stay through the start of school. Minerva, by some miracle, has hired a Slytherin to be the new professor of Transfiguration. Dalia Emerson is a few years younger than me and probably a distant cousin; her family is old like my mother’s and similarly inclined to stay out of the political fray. To that end, Ms. Emerson has been on the faculty of Beauxbatons for over a decade, and the Stalwart Scot persuaded her to join the new Hogwarts. I am cautiously optimistic that I can pass on some more house and dungeon responsibilities to her and to Mr. Zabini.

The new Defense professor is Peter Alexander Harvey-George, Gryffindor, and is as obnoxious as his name. His station at the head table is at the opposite end from where we were. Once again the small things bring the most pleasure.

To your queries about my domestic existence, I can cook well enough when I am at my house. I have a small kitchen in my quarters at school, but I never cook there because what the elves can do is superior. I have no idea why cooking does not come as naturally as potion brewing. I certainly don’t enjoy it nearly as much. I have to rely on the Muggle market in Cokeworth, but I do have a fully magical kitchen. My mother used it when she was up to it. The appliances easily transfigure into their Muggle counterparts, a remnant of my childhood.

I am aware of the mean Professor Snape fantasies. Before I had my mail filtered, I received some interesting letters.

I am no longer subject to the anti-smoking charm. My therapist has decided today is the day I make the right choices because they benefit me, and not because I am under threat. I have decided that today is the day I sit in the garden with a bottle of Balvenie, a box of Marlboro Reds in one hand; my Zippo in the other.

What’s in a name? That which we call a cunt by any other name would smell as sweet.

I’ve never felt compelled to call any genitalia names at all out loud unless prompted to do so by another party. I suspect Miss Brown was being intentionally provocative. That said, filthy talk has its place. I confess I’ve read your treatise on the subject countless times since I received it and will most likely take it to the garden with me this evening whether or not my lesser angel wins the struggle.

How I miss you, my own dear Hermione.

Love,

Severus

 

 

9 August, 1999

Dear Severus,

I’m squarely on the side of your better angel while loving the wicked one as well.

The party. Well, it happened. I will qualify it as not a complete disaster. I was terrified of drinking too much and then sticking it to some people, or worse yet, crying. I nursed a glass of red wine all night and did a lot of deep breathing.

I mounted a full-on charm offensive of Miss Maisy Jones. I decided if I could get Maisy on my side, the others might begin to thaw. Miss Jones is from New Zealand and moved here just after the war to work at the Ministry, quite unaware of the situation of the past few years in wizarding Britain. She’s a clerical worker assigned to Arthur Weasley in the Office of Muggle Affairs.

I praised her pluck, I praised her sense of adventure, I praised her taste in boyfriends, I praised her black boots. (They are stunning. What are the wages of Ministry clerical employees?) I waited until Ron had slipped out to the loo—it was the only place they didn’t go together—and cornered her.

She was resistant at first, but by the time Ron had emerged and fetched another beer, I was well within the gates.

He looked terrified when he saw us together. I can’t imagine what he was scared of, that I might tell her how nice he is? What he must think of me. I touched his arm and told him how happy I was for him; both for his new job and for finding such a lovely person. I excused myself to greet Luna, who had just arrived, but expressed hope that we could all talk more later, which did not happen.

Ginny ignored me completely; better that than open hostility.

Harry was wonderful, of course. I gave him a set of beer steins with the Gryffindor crest on them. He took me to the little back garden so we could chat. He asked after you, and then tactfully tried to glean the nature of our relationship. (Yours and mine.) I was honest but not overly forthcoming. I told him I care for you a great deal (understatement). He asked rather incredulously if we were romantically involved. I told him (and these are my exact words to the best of my recollection), “Oh, Harry, I do hope so!” To which he said “blimey” or some such and changed the subject.

The new faculty at Hogwarts sound promising and intriguing. Cut Peter Alex some slack, it must be difficult to manage four given names.

I am enjoying picturing you with your trolley at the supermarket. Do you wear Muggle clothes? Manage Muggle money? Check the date on the milk? Squeeze the melons? I imagine you doing all of these things, and it amuses me greatly.

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of your Great Awakening. What a marvelous day and one to be celebrated. One year ago today, I was furiously working on plans for Potions classes and trying desperately to impress you. I wish I could visit last year’s me and tell her how unbelievably wonderful the year would be. I needed some good news then.

Your letters have become my most cherished possessions, and the latest one is the dearest. As I read about you and Lily, I realized I hadn’t breathed in paragraphs. I suspected there was more to the story. Thank you for trusting me enough to share it. I think you see me as much braver than I actually am. Lily chose to marry a man whom she “loved fiercely,” while I chose not to be with one for whom I have great affection, but with whom I am not compatible. If I were lying in your arms last summer at the Burrow, I would have made a different choice.

Severus, can it be autumn already?

Love,

Hermione

 

 

 14 August, 1999

Dear Hermione,

My darling girl, autumn is closer by the day.

Sounds like you did marvelously at the party. I will be shocked if Miss Weasley doesn’t come around eventually.

I can transfigure my clothes easily into their Muggle versions. I usually look like a waiter who has just finished his shift. Muggle money is also not challenging; I’ve used it all my life. I don’t inspect anything I put in the trolley very closely. I’m am intent on finishing what I consider an unpleasant task and leaving as soon as possible. I have a feeling doing the shopping with you would be an adventure. (This is me ignoring the melon squeezing comment. How base, M.G.)

I prize your letters. When one arrives in the morning, I save them as long as possible; I make myself complete a certain number of tasks before I allow myself to even look at it. Finally, I sit down with a cup of tea and savour every word. I will read a paragraph ten times to make sure I have fully appreciated the meaning. I could quote whole passages.

I was at St. Mungo’s this week for therapy, and thoughts of last year were inevitable. I was a dreadful patient, but the healers are kind to me when they see me, and seem pleased with my recovery. I brought Anabel a small plant Pomona helped me select to thank her especially. She embraced me, which was surprising but not unpleasant.

When I received your plans in hospital a year ago, I was more impressed than I would ever admit. I think I labeled it “overkill,” which means I was astounded that someone really put that much care into a work project. I will not be continuing your age appropriate potions; too ingratiatingly cute for my taste, but Pomona and I are working to further integrate Potions and Herbology, something we talked about for years but never accomplished until you put the quaffle in motion. Your labels in the stores saved me hours of time.

The last year has been the very best of my life, including my time at university, which I loved, but it was marred by Death Eater nonsense and existential angst. I am almost afraid to write the words: I am happy.

I fear I have wasted time in my letters and have not accomplished all I had intended. I need to make you aware of how difficult I can be and how many flaws I have so you can make an informed choice.

I am ill-tempered in the morning.

Not counting you, I have but five friends, all of them are co-workers, and I suspect only two of them actually like me.

I make self-destructive choices.

I don’t find babies or small children appealing, and the thought of passing on my genes is horrifying.

With the exception of you, I would much rather be alone the vast majority of time than with people—I don’t like to socialize.

My sleeping patterns are awful.

I’m sure there are more.

If you want to continue with our “romantic involvement” (I do hope so) after reading the above list, I would like to meet in London on Saturday, eighteen September and stay through Monday morning the twentieth. I have adjusted my opinion slightly to agree that the extra Arthimancy classes have bought us the day before your birthday, if you are agreeable.

Love,

Severus

 

 

19 August, 1999

Dear Severus,

One month from yesterday? I am undone. I am thrilled. I am terrified you will be disappointed. I am thinking such thoughts that I blush in the library and realize ten minutes later that I haven’t entered a word. I am counting the days.

Not that my typing speed matters because the code has finally been successfully written; I have been defeated. With a wave of a wand, the entire library catalog was entered into the computer in seconds. All is not lost, the two professors have decided to keep me on as they continue to study the Internet and how it can be useful to the wizarding world. I now have something called an email address:  HJGranger@TLUniversity.edu

Of course this is useless to you at Hogwarts, but if you continue to play with the Cokeworth Library computers, it might come in handy. Please don’t substitute it for your beautifully handwritten letters, though. From what I have seen so far, the professors are mainly using email to send each other pictures made of key strokes.

I debated with myself about whether or not I should mention this next subject, but I’m afraid if I don’t it will lead to resentment, and there is surely a reason I had the dream in the first place. I woke up the other morning furious with you and dreadfully hurt.

I dreamt I was back in fourth year. It was during the time that Skeeter was running the stories of me breaking Harry’s heart for Viktor Krum. (You know that was complete rubbish, right?) We were in potions class with the Slytherins.

[This is an aside, but why on earth did Gryffindor always have potions with Slytherin? Was this your idea of a good plan? Just unfortunate fate? More machinations of El Dumbledore?  It ensured that many of my memories of your class are much worse than they would have been if we were just allowed to have class with effing Ravenclaw.]

Pansy had the newspaper (in reality it was a magazine article, but in the dream it was a giant sized Daily Prophet) and was reading excerpts aloud. Do you remember these stories? They were so earnestly written that Molly Weasley was cold to me for months after. Draco was making lewd comments about Viktor and me and cruel observations of my appearance (teeth, hair, flat chest, the regulars) as Pansy read. You asked them mildly to put the paper away and focus on the lesson, but you had a smirk on your face as if you thought they were hilarious, what they were saying was HILARIOUS, and it was a shame you had to rein them in.

Ugh, it’s making me want to cry right now just thinking about it. I know this was a dream, and the actual events didn’t play out exactly like this. If I recall correctly, you actually read the article, and it was primarily to wind up Harry, but how many times did you allow the Slytherins to behave similarly to the events of my dream? Most of the time, the boys would come to my defense, but there were incidents when I left your class feeling worthless.

It was not a one-sided conflict by any means, and I know that we were shown bias on the other side, most egregiously by the Headmaster. Still, it makes me sad for the fifteen-year-old me who thought you were brilliant and wanted you to see that I was not just a typical exasperating Gryffindor.

Flaws? I have many.

I am an insufferable know-it-all.

I am sanctimonious.

I feel superior to people I perceive as less intelligent than me.

I can’t cook.

I feel uneasy in unorganized and/or dirty spaces.

I try to control everything and everyone around me.

My thoughts on your list:

I ate breakfast with you for seven months last year. I miss you every day when I pour my tea and eat my toast reading the Prophet.

I don’t have many friends. Most of the girls I went to school with referred to me as “Hermione Granger” (as if there were so many Hermiones) to make clear they had no desire to be familiar.

Your self-destructive choices make you who you are. Many of them make you an awful lot of fun to be around as well.

I don’t want children in the near future and perhaps not ever. I’m not ruling it out because I don’t know how I will feel in ten years or so. Until recently I would have said that I never wanted children, but now I’m so besotted with you, having your baby at some point makes me feel warm and wobbly. Enjoy that irony.

I have to be alone a certain portion of the day or I don’t function well.

I do enjoy socializing with my close friends when we’re getting along. Perhaps we can compromise?

I sleep like a rock most of the time.

Oh, Severus. I’m such a mess. Why would you even take me on?

Love,

Hermione                                                                                                                     

 

 

24 August, 1999

Dear Hermione,

How do I even begin?

This is my fourth attempt at this parchment. Words escape me.

I apologize for the way I treated you during those years. I am sincerely, humbly, profoundly sorry. I have no excuse for my behaviour.

I acted the way I did for a variety of reasons, none of which justify what I did, and none of which are worth mentioning. None of them have anything to do with you as a person.

Let me tell you what I thought about you at school.

You were quite simply the most brilliant student I had ever taught. And as much as the three of you drove me to distraction at times (and much more the boys than you, although there was that time you set me on fire) I admired your devotion to each other.

If I could go back, how differently I would behave. 

I only really became acquainted with you this year. At first, I made unfortunate assumptions about you based on anti-Gryffindor bias and factors I didn’t understand at the time. Very quickly; however, I began to see you as you really are. Intelligent, absolutely, but caring and dedicated, and oh my darling Hermione, so brave. You taught your classes like you’d had the job for years. You didn’t let anyone intimidate you, especially but not exclusively, me. You treated me with such kindness and such respect when I hadn’t earned any of it. I asked Minerva to move you to the staff table at meals because I wanted to spend more time with you.

I have been carrying a torch for you since that night in the garden with my birthday wine. You were so beautiful with your curls coming out of that plait and your amber eyes looking at me as if I was worthy to be your friend.

Before you opened that Valentine horror, I was so sad and so jealous that it was from someone else. I was furious with myself for not sending you something, for not declaring something.

I want to eat breakfast with you every day.

I practically develop hives when my spaces aren’t tidy.

I would socialize with Potter every night if that’s what it took to be with you.

I will prepare all of our meals or hire someone better.

That you would even consider carrying my child as something desirable makes me rethink my stance.

Hermione, I am so in love with you and so unworthy of you.

If you will have me, I am yours,

Severus


	15. Chapter 15

(cccome? said he  
ummm said she)  
you're divine! said he  
(you are Mine said she) 

e.e. cummings

**September 1999**

**Hermione**

 

She apparated in the early afternoon into the designated ally with a pop. It was a brilliant sunny day, the first slightly chilly one. She was wearing a short black skirt, black opaque tights and a light charcoal jumper. She had a second-hand black knapsack that hung low on her back.

She saw him almost immediately, leaning against a drainpipe where the ally met the street. He was wearing dark denim trousers, tailored in the wizarding style and buttoned against his black boots. He had a tight-fitting black jumper and a charcoal jacket. She wasted no time bounding into his arms.

She put her head on his chest, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her and they just froze like that for a moment before she tipped her mouth up and devoured his, not repeating the mistake this time of waiting for him to move forward. She was wearing faux leather boots that looked vinyl. They had a bit of a heel, so on her toes, her mouth reached his without having to strain her neck.

She had thought endlessly in the past few months about what it would be like to really kiss him. She had run her tongue over his crooked teeth hundreds of times in her mind. In reality, his tongue met hers and teeth exploration was pushed aside for more urgent pursuits. He tasted like tea and peppermint—absolutely delicious. He snogged her shamelessly right there, almost in the street, holding her loosely yet possessively at her hips while she caressed his neck and the sides of his face.

He broke from the kissing and brought her in closer, embracing her tightly and said in her ear, “Hermione.”

“That sounds so good!” She laughed to hear him call her by her given name. “And your voice is much clearer. You have been working hard?”

“I wouldn’t go that far; it’s mostly time…”

“And not smoking?”

“Not smoking,” he said gloomily. “I’m just now able to drink wine again without feeling bereft. Would you like to get a drink? There’s a pub over…”

“No!” She said emphatically.

She had both of her hands entwined in his and she looked at him with a smile.

“I’ve already checked into the hotel. It’s Muggle…”

“Wonderful, let’s go,” she said.

He chuckled and led her by the hand down the street. She was gripping his hand so tightly that she could feel her fingers strain.

“Muggle hotel. So there’s a television and a mini-bar?”

“I can state for certain there’s a telly,” he said.

“Oooooh, I haven’t watched television in…”

“Alright then, let’s just go watch…”

“Or maybe in a while…”

They were talking over each other nervously, and she buried the side of her head into his shoulder affectionately as they walked.

“Hermione, your hair,” he said, seemingly with a bit of awe.

“It’s a lot, right? I found this product…first let me say that we have a Marks and Spencer, which I had no idea how much I had missed. Anyway the hair aisle is something to behold.” Hermione had been wearing her hair down and free since she moved. She had found a hair gel designed for curly hair that defined each curl and left it all not as frizzy but still very, very full.

“It’s stunning. In the sun it’s a dozen colors,” he kissed the top of her head and then laughed. “It’s also slightly…crunchy?”

“You can’t have everything. I’ll wash it tonight, and then it can be a soft, fuzzy mess. I’m not joking about the struggle,” she laughed.

She caught a glimpse of their reflection in a store window, and she thought they looked so elegant, in unintentionally matching outfits; his black hair against his face and her brown mane. She had spent enough time outside this summer that the top layer was golden, and it became darker through the bottom layer, which was chestnut. She hadn’t had many experiences of looking in a mirror and loving what she saw. Perhaps it was also a reflection of how wonderful she was feeling inside at that moment.

They reached the glass doors of the hotel, which opened automatically.

“How did you check in here without a credit card?” The Muggle-filled lobby took her back to vacations in her childhood.

“I have a credit card and a Muggle bank account.”

“Really? Severus, you never fail to surprise me.”

“I own a house in a Muggle-run town. I have to pay taxes.”

“Of course. Do you have an NHS card?”

“No, do you?”

“I did. I have no idea where it is. No doubt it disappeared…” They were waiting for the lift still grasping hands. “I’m sure I still have an I.D., though.”

He laughed. “Good to know.”

“You probably do to; weren’t you born in a Muggle hospital?”

“Yes.”

“There you go. Aren’t we just Muggley Muggles.”

“Until we need to make a piece of toast,” he said as they entered the lift.

“That’s true.” There was an older couple in the lift so she didn’t say anything else but she was thinking _best of both worlds_ in her head.

They exited the lift on the fourth floor, and she felt uncontrollable giddiness rising in her. Their room was just down the hall, and she kissed his cheek as he fumbled with the card that he had to insert into a slot for the door to open. Muggle magic.

She made an involuntary noise from her throat that was the manifestation of nervous energy. “I’m sorry I’m so…,” she said. “It’s not like anticipation of this has been building for months or anything. Three months, Severus! I haven’t seen you in nearly three months! You know we could have gone ahead that night, and I don’t think I would be nearly this nervous,” she laughed.

“There’s no pressure, Hermione…”

She breathed in deeply and tried to calm herself.

The room was small, but airy and very bright. There would be no hiding in the dark for hours. It was very exciting, but very real. She again wondered if it wouldn’t have been a better idea to have a champagne fueled romp in the dungeon months ago to ease the tension.

He hung his jacket on the back of a chair while she took her wand from the side pocket of her bag and placed it on the nightstand and then put the knapsack in the niche where clothes could be hung. She sat on the bed and unzipped her boots, removing each one.

“How’s school, I haven’t had a letter since…”

“You’ll have one when you return. It’s almost finished.” He sat beside her on the bed, removing his boots as well. “School is the same as it always is at the start of the year. The first years are helpless; the sixth years know everything, no one pays a bit of attention. The new fourth years are causing all sorts of problems in the dungeon. It doesn’t seem right without you there.”

She swung her leg over him and then straddled him sitting up with her chest against his. She rested her head under his chin and her arms were tightly around him. He felt so good and warm, and just like home.

“Let’s just stay here then,” she said.

“That would be fine.”

She sighed happily.  Her skirt had ridden all the way up, and the crotch of her tights was pressed against him. She could feel his cock under his trousers, and the center of her body was turning to liquid spreading through her torso. She pressed her mouth against his and ran her hands up and down his sides, keeping herself tightly against his cock, which was lined up perfectly.

He moaned against her mouth and leaned back a little. He took the edges of her jumper in his hands and gently lifted it up. She put up her arms to help him. He froze.

How she could momentarily forget, she had no idea, but she had. In fact, the only thought she’d had just then was that she had planned her outfit around her favorite bra, and she couldn’t wait to see his reaction. It was grey cotton and black lace, and she loved its practicality mixed with sexiness. She had bought it with him in mind.

But now he was looking overwhelmed. She finished taking off her jumper and dropped it on the floor.

“Dolohov,” she ran her finger down the length of her scar, and he kissed the top of it. “I hid it with a little bit of magic and a little bit of makeup at graduation. It’s actually faded some. This is Lestrange,” she showed him her whole right side, where the skin looked like crumpled tissue paper. “And this,” she showed him her left elbow, “is where I fell off my bike when I was nine and broke my arm. I had to have surgery.” She showed him the scar that was the size of a small worm.

She lifted his jumper off, expecting to see much the same, and she was right, except his was considerably more extensive.

“Oh, Severus,” she said, forgetting the resolve she had just shown.

“Shh, it’s okay. They’re old and fading.”

“These are mostly him?”

“Yes. I have a few from lackeys on my back, but these are him.”

“He was such an arsehole.”

He laughed. “And Bellatrix was…”

“I hate to call her _Bellatrix_ ; it makes her sound like an evil doll. She was an arsehole, too. A bunch of evil…”

“And they are dead, and we are alive.”

“Yes. So enough. Do you like my bra?”

“It’s beautiful. May I remove it?”

“Please do. One hook.”

He unclasped it and peeled it off and looked admiringly at her. This was more like it. She wiggled against his cock again and smiled at him.

He was softly touching her breasts, one in each hand, driving her rather crazy.

“What you expected?” She asked him.

“Size and shape, yes. But I didn’t expect your nipples to be this dark.” He lifted her slightly so she was more on her knees and face to face with him. He lowered his head and took one breast in his mouth and sucked, and she immediately went from a slow burn back to that molten state.

“Is that a good thing?” she gasped in his ear, taking the time to put his earlobe in her mouth and sucking in the same rhythm as he was.

“You are so fucking sexy, Hermione,” he said and switched to the other side, and she ground herself against him again.

All of a sudden he took charge, clutching her under her arse, picking her up from where they had been sitting on the edge of the bed and then turning and laying her down, not roughly, but not gently, either. He fumbled quickly for the zip in the back of her skirt and removed it in one motion. He peeled her tights off, leaving her black cotton knickers. She pulled her knees up and opened her legs for him and he crawled to her. He had one hand under her hip and one at the top of her thigh, and in seconds his nose was at her pubic bone as he licked the crotch of her knickers. She had no idea that was a thing, but she enjoyed it. The knickers were already damp, and his saliva mixing with her wetness made her shiver in anticipation.

He licked her again, one long stroke that covered from back to front. Her only thought was she wanted those knickers off, just as he started to pull on the elastic waist.

“Yours off, too, Severus.”

He brought the knickers off the length of her legs and dropped them on the floor. He stood up for a moment at the end of the bed. He was staring at her.

“Just give me a minute,” he said. He leaned in and stroked her pubic hair on top and then explored the folds at her center and made her squirm under his hand.

“Severus, this isn’t fair!”

He smiled and stood up again, unbuttoning his trousers. They had a side button placket in the wizard style, and they had a built in undergarment that was a part of traditional wizard menswear. She had been expecting some kind of typical Muggle-esque pants like Ron, and because of tent living she knew Harry wore. Instead, in one motion, Severus’s trousers were off, and he was naked.

His cock was thick and large, and she was suddenly shy. He didn’t have much body hair, but what he did have showed up black against his very pale skin. His body was thin and lovely, and she wondered for a moment what he was doing with her when there were so many more beautiful witches he could have. She scooted up the bed so her head was on the pillows and then realized she had moved away from him. She put her hands flat on the bed and spread her legs slightly wider so he wouldn’t think she was trying to escape him.

He crawled in again and immediately put his tongue flat against her, and once again the warm liquid in her center rushed to new places, up to her ears, to her fingers and her toes. He put one finger inside of her and started circling his tongue exactly where she wanted him to. He put in another finger.

Her mind went to lightning round.

_This feels sooooooo good. Do I taste okay? Do I smell okay? Does he like this? Does he wish I would just come? Am I going to come? Why haven’t I come? The bed is rather scratchy. His back is so nice. Is it okay if I put my foot here? Are my toes unpleasant on his back? Better take it off. Ooooooh that feels sooooooooo nice. Am I going to come? Does he wish I would just come already? ENOUGH. Stop. Stop thinking. Just feel. Just_ _feel. Just feeeeeel. Oh, he’s so good at this. I hope he really likes this, and it’s not just a chore. Thank god he can’t read my mind. Sorry, Severus for being happy you lost that bit of… Stop, Hermione, Get a fucking grip. Feel, feel, feel, feeeeeeel, concentrate on that spot, that spot, just there, right there, right…there, right THERE! Oh god, Oooooooooo, that is…oh my god, I am actually going to…uuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…_

She did some kind of embarrassing moaning scream while she came harder than she had in years. Her legs were shaking as she came down again shuddering against his fingers still inside her.

“Severus, that was just, oh my god, I’ve never done that, I’ve never…” she was still rather breathless, “come with another person in the…with…someone…oh my god.”

“Never?” He was smirking, of course he was. “You’ve never had an orgasm with another person…present?”

“No.”

“Didn’t Weasley...?”

“I’m sure he would have been willing,” actually she wasn’t sure, but she assumed he would have been eventually. “So it wasn’t…um…on the menu, I guess, for the limited…do you really want to hear this?”

“I’m just glorying in the newly explored territory, Granger.”

“Okay, really. You’re very smug. And call me Hermione, Sir Hillary.”

“Hermione, you are something.” He was kissing up her belly to her breasts, which gave her another shudder. Her nipples were now hard little points. Was that weird? It didn’t seem to bother him. He kissed her, and she could taste herself which was so much hotter than she could have imagined. He slunk back down and had one hand on her with his fingers lingering inside, and he kissed her lower belly.

“Do you need your wand?” 

“I’m on…the potion,” she told him.

“Since?”

“Over a year.”

“When was your last…”

“Oh, Severus, really!” She was not going to discuss her period with his hand inside her.

“It’s important, we need…”

“Last week. It ended Thursday, okay?” She sat up and shucked his fingers.

“And you took…”

“Yes! I’m actually rather obsessive about it.”

“Of course you are, sorry. It’s my responsibility, too, and we should have discussed it before.”

“It’s not like we haven’t written about everything else.”

“Yes, but then it became so bloody serious, Hermione, and it was hard to segue between being sorry for damaging your soul when you were fifteen to _hey, what about contraception_?”

“Will you please come here?” She asked him, and he moved up. She kissed him. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” He looked so…just so delicious right there. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear.

“Oh Darling, I love you, too,” he whispered and started kissing her again and his fingers resumed their mission, making her wet and ready, and she was so ready. She reached down hesitantly and felt his cock that was so hard and yet soft in spots and ever so lovely. “Is it…are you?” He asked her.

“Yes, please, Severus, I want it…”

She didn’t have to ask again. In one smooth motion he entered her all the way up, nothing halting, nothing hesitating. He moaned and embraced her tightly. She was full to the top, and she felt him against her cervix, which was a new sensation. It was a little bit sensitive, and there was an edge of pain that was surprisingly exciting. She was amazed that he had accomplished this in one move. She was so wet, and it made it much easier and more pleasant…

_For the love of…Hermione, get out of your head and stop preparing a cause and effect chart._

He started moving against her, and she brought her hands to his arse and her knees up high, encouraging him to really fuck her, which he did. He put a hand between them to rub her. She was still somewhat numb from her orgasm and doubted she would come again, but it felt so lovely and so radiant. She focused on him and kissed him on the mouth while she tightened herself around him making him moan.

“Hermione, I’m going to…”

He came with a small roar, and she pulled him in as tightly as she could, wanting to feel every bit of him.

He slumped on top of her like a rag doll after, and she lightly touched his back and the sides of his legs and everything else she could reach. He pulled out of her, put his head up to kiss her lightly and then rested his head on her chest with one of his hands covering an exposed breast.

She concentrated on intermittently caressing his hair and kissing his head. They stayed that way quietly for a few minutes and slowly transferred so that she was lying on him with her head on his chest. He started petting her sparse pubic hair softly.

“Not very feminist,” she commented.

“What?”

“I should probably let it grow wild if I continue in witches’ studies, but unfortunately wild is very, very wild.”

He laughed. “I came of age in the 70s, so I doubt it would shock me.”

“Again, it’s the tent.”

“That bloody tent,” he laughed.

“Oh, don’t even mention that. That was the worst.”

“There are potions that would have stopped…”

“Because I had access to potions! I could hardly keep myself clean or have any standard of personal hygiene, and I was the only tent occupant who was even making an effort. A scourgify can only go so far, and that’s if you’re competent enough to cast it. Anyway, I have been rather fastidious since then.”

“Makes perfect sense. How you choose to groom yourself is your business,” he said with barely contained mirth.

“Such a feminist stand, Severus.”

“May we discuss the menu?” He was full-out laughing now.

“What?” She asked him mock-witheringly.

“You talked about certain activities with Weasley that weren’t on the menu.”

“Do you really want to…”

“Yes.”

“So after this I can ask you anything about past girlfriends and experiences and so on?”

“I will be a model of candor.”

“But this isn’t really an equal exchange because you are amused by my past, and I’m intimidated by yours.”

“There is no reason to be intimidated, Hermione,” he was continuing his lazy stroking, and she was beginning to warm up again. It was very pleasant.

“You are going to be disappointed, because there was no menu, that was just a phrase I used. It’s just…we were very limited in the way we…”

“I don’t understand. You were both eighteen, you were practically married, you had free…”

“I didn’t say we were practically married. People perceived us as a serious couple; it’s not the same.” She looked at him and he met her gaze encouraging her to continue. “It was an emotional…It was an awful time, really. Fred had been killed. Ron was in full-on protective mode. It wasn’t lazy summer days, you know, at least at first.”

“Of course,” he said.

“And then it _was_ more relaxed, but…Ron and I didn’t get beyond…maybe because both of us were inexperienced, and maybe we’re just not compatible in that way. For him, and for me as well, at least in the beginning, it was a somewhat…spiritual act.”

“A spiritual act in which he came every time and you never did.”

“It was a rather prescribed set of acts that wasn’t conducive…”

“The same every time?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“But you can come by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Easily?”

“Depending on the situation, but yes, most of the time. And it’s not like he didn’t do anything along those lines, and I _do_ believe that each person should be his or her own agent in those situations. I never said, _Ron_ , _touch me like this_ , or _would you consider doing that_.”

“Because you were embarrassed? Or didn’t care?”

“More the latter. The more we had sex, the more I started viewing him as not someone I was destined to be with, and it wasn’t because he was a terrible lover. If I had been committed and interested, of course we would have figured it out. If I had been in love with him…but I wasn’t. I think it’s really unfair, though, to put it all on him.”

“All right, I’ll leave Weasley alone.”

“Thank you, and it’s your turn.”

“Sexual history in one hundred words?”

“It can be more,” she reached down to hold his flaccid cock. He was still putting his hand all over her, so it seemed only fair. She hadn’t given it the attention she wanted to anyway.

“Remember I’m almost forty, Hermione. It isn’t so easy.” As if to contradict him, his cock started perking up slightly. “I lost my virginity to a Muggle girl I met in a club. I came about ten seconds after I got the tip in.”

She started focusing on the velvety tip, just peeking out of his foreskin. It was weeping just a bit, and she spread the fluid around its head with her finger.

“After that, I met a woman, older than me, a witch, who just wanted someone in her bed occasionally, and I was happy to oblige. That’s where I figured out what to do. How to not come so fast, which I didn’t do so well today…”

“What are you talking about?” It had been amazing; perfect.

“I could have made you come again if I had lasted longer.”

She felt a pool of fluid between her legs and hope he hadn’t noticed, and then realized that him noticing was exactly the point.

“I learned how to make a woman come, or at least started down that road. Then I quit seeing her because she met someone else. After that it was a series of women like Alla. There are a lot of young women in connected wizarding families who marry wizards significantly older than themselves, and one of the perks of those arrangements is lovers on the side.”

“Wait, Alla is married?” She felt like her world was very small, and there were vast universes she didn’t understand.

“Yes. Most of them were. I would see them on school breaks. One lasted a few years, but she was the exception. It was easy not to get attached because there were clear boundaries. I made a mistake with Alla because…I couldn’t read her thoughts anymore.”

And there went those vast universes again. “Did they know you could read their minds?”

“Usually it was part of the game.”

“And they would visit you at Hogwarts sometimes?”

“No, it’s not permitted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not allowed to have lovers in my quarters; it is explicitly against the rules. If someone is in a long-term relationship, especially for relationships in which marriage isn’t allowed, there are exceptions…”

“Marriages aren’t allowed for whom?”

“Gay people, for one.”

“Of course.” She had already added that to her list of marriage law abominations.

“I never fell into a category in which I was allowed to have overnight guests, as it were.”

“So if we had just…in June…”

“It would have been breaking the rules. That is _not_ why I stopped it, though.”

“Have you broken the rules before? Never have I ever had sex at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, I have, but not very often.”

“Never have I ever had sex with a former student.”

“That’s a relief, Hermione. Yes, I have. Before today I had slept with three former students, all of whom were connected to Death Eaters in the last few years, so I was acting in my capacity…”

“Dumbledore made me do it!”

“That is not what I said.” He shifted a bit to get better access to her and put a finger right in.

“Oooooh wow,” she said, and his cock seemed to agree. “Never have I ever slept with a former student that wasn’t a Slytherin.”

“Hermione.”

“Except for me.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“And if you did, which house would you choose?”

“It would depend on the person, obviously, but if I’m just going on houses…Hufflepuff, I think. Good for Longbottom getting on that.”

“Hard workers, loyal, eager to please?”

“Yes, and you?”

“Ravenclaw. I like the smart, broody types.”

“Ravenclaws are wankers.”

“We could both easily be Ravenclaw.”

“That doesn’t change my opinion.”

His cock was now fully hard, and she started stroking it with more purpose.

“May I?” She asked as she started crouching down over it.

“You don’t have to ask that.”

She licked its tip, ran her tongue all over it, while she continued to stroke the shaft. She tried to get Lavender out of her head. She put it in her mouth as far as it would go and ran her tongue up and down as she sucked as best she could. She took his scrotum in her other hand, and he started moaning and hitching his breath, an encouraging sign. He let her continue about thirty seconds more before he eased her head back up.

“I want to fuck you again,” he said in a low voice that made her again pool wetness. She lay back and he entered her immediately and started thrusting hard. With his hand that had been on her all afternoon, he started rubbing her with more serious intent. He dipped his head and sucked on one of her nipples, and she cried out. All of a sudden, her body was one sensation and she felt herself hurtling toward release. She arched her back, and he lifted her arse off the bed fucking her from his knees. He licked his thumb one last time and just pressed down, and that was all it took. She came on his cock and shouted his name and exactly what she was doing. She put her arms around his neck and he lifted her so that they were sitting up, and they were one oozy pool, and she was still having aftershocks as he continued to fuck her. He pulled her even closer so there was no space between the two, not even a molecule, and he thrusted into her hard and bit her on the neck as he came.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

“Holy Merlin, don’t apologize, that was…” She just kissed him and let her tongue float into him and it was as if they were one person for a few moments, and then she collapsed on the bed. He started looking at her neck.

“Uft, that is going to be a mark; I have some…”

“Just leave it. It doesn’t hurt, and it will be a nice reminder.”

She got up to go to the loo, sore but pleasantly so. After she had finished, she called for him.

“There’s a lovely tub and room to expand it. You can bring a book if you want.”

“You want a book.”

“I don’t mind either way.” She reached to grab her wand, and he cupped one of her breasts. “You can do that in there.”

“All right. How do you know that I brought a book?”

She gave him a saucy look. “You wouldn’t go overnight anywhere without a book. I know you, Severus.”

She grabbed her own, a magical ancient history volume she was reading for school and started to fill the tub. She put her hair in a clip and sank down into the tub, as he walked in.

“I need to use the loo first,” he said.

“Would you like me to go back in there?”

“Not unless you want to.”

She did divert her eyes because even after all she had seen and done that day, she wasn’t quite ready to witness Professor Snape peeing.

He sank into the tub and closed his eyes.

“Nice, right?”

“I haven’t been in a bathtub since…”

“Christmas in Prague?”

“I was going to say childhood. I always shower, but you’re right, this is nice.”

They read quietly, casting warming charms when necessary until their fingers and toes started to prune.

“We should talk about dinner,” he said.

“I’m starving.”

“Room service?”

“It’s so expensive. Can we just go to a little café or the pub you mentioned?”

“Does that require clothes? All right, my little practical witch, we’ll go to a café, preferably one with a good wine list.”

Hermione got out of the tub and dried off, putting on fresh knickers and bra, Muggle denims, a turquoise peasant blouse and worn black Chuck Taylors.

“Did you find the motherlode of used shoes?”

“I did. Second hand clothes as well. So much more affordable, and I don’t look like anyone else.” She shook out her hair and applied lip-gloss, smacking her lips in the mirror.

“Hazards of wearing a uniform too long. Do they allow you to dress like that for class?”

“No, I have a robe to put on top.”

He looked natty as always in black trousers, boots and charcoal jumper.

He held her hand during the short walk to the café.

“Smart picking a Muggle area. We would cause a stir elsewhere,” she said.

“I don’t intend for us to be a secret, but given the nature of the wizarding press, I don’t see any reason to flaunt it, either.”

They took an outside table, He ordered the wine and let her pick the food. They had very heavy red wine with sausages, chips, and a salad. They skipped dessert, paid the tab, and raced back to the hotel where they fucked against the inside wall behind the door with their trousers still partially on before they fell to the floor and he made her come with his mouth again.

They rinsed off in the shower and got ready for bed early as both were knackered. Hermione pulled on grey and black striped cotton knickers and her _Slytherins Do It in the_ Grass t-shirt. She came out of the bathroom, and he was wearing grey boxers and a black t-shirt.

“You _do_ have regular pants,” she said.

“Why would you think otherwise? What are you wearing?”

“This was my Christmas gift from Harry last year.”

“What…”

“I don’t even know. Apparently Ginny told him that you and I ate meals together, and he wanted to wind me up. Little did he know.”

He chuckled and turned back the bed and let her get in first. They both had their books.

“I sleep very soundly. You won’t wake me up, I have to charm four chimes on my wand to get up for school. If you wake up and want to turn on the light, it won’t bother me.” She nestled into the crook of his arm and opened her book. This was what she missed most about Ron; she loved to sleep with someone wrapped around her. That was her last coherent thought.

She woke to sunlight and pounding on the window. Severus wasn’t in bed, and she saw him trying to open the latch. He managed it, and an owl dropped her paper, a package and several letters before swooping away.

“Good morning,” she said groggily.

“Happy birthday.” He handed her a cup of tea, the best way to wake up, and she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. There was a large piece of furniture in the room that hadn’t been there last night. She scooted from the bed, realizing that half her bum was hanging out of her knickers. She adjusted self-consciously and went to the large mahogany bookcase. It was intricately carved with whorls and cut-outs. On the top shelf were about ten new books: wizard feminist theory, Muggle feminist theory, medieval witchcraft histories, a book on the plague, one on witchcraft in colonial America, one on the history of the Internet.

She looked at him with her mouth agape. “Severus!”

“Do you like it? It belonged to my mother’s family. I restored it a little, but it was in fairly good shape.

She put her arms around him and kissed him. I love it. It’s beautiful. And the books!”

“That wasn’t hard. This will give you some choices. There’s one other thing, and it’s mostly for me, so you don’t have to…”

She took the white box from him and opened it. It was a black lace bra and knickers set with suspenders and stockings. The bra was completely transparent.

“You don’t have to wear them.”

“Oh, I will. Thank you, Severus.”

“Open the rest, and we’ll find some breakfast.”

She opened Harry’s first. It was a university quidditch jersey for their team, the Lobalugs.

 

Dear Hermione,

Not that you care, but your school has an excellent quidditch team. You should take in a match. Maybe your boyfriend can go with you if he’s not too busy terrifying first years. Joking, Professor, if you’re reading this.

In seriousness, Hermione, you deserve happiness, and he does, too. Don’t study too hard (yeah, right) and I hope to see you soon. I will try to influence Ginny to behave.

Love you,

Harry

 

“The first years all think I’m a tragic figure now; they are impossible to scare,” Severus said behind her.

“This jersey is huge.”

“It’s supposed to fit like that. Wear it with your denims and your Chuck Taylors when you go to Muggle areas, and you’ll look very cool.”

There was another letter from Grimmauld Place.

 

Dear Hermione,

Happy birthday. Hope university is going well. Say hi to Neville for me.

Signed,

Ron and Maisy

 

“Blown over by his sentimentality and writing skills,” he said.

“Hey, the charm offensive worked.”

There were also cards from Shell Cottage and the Burrow. She opened Fleur’s first, a primer on swoopy, fancy writing.

 

Dear Hermione,

Happy birthday, my friend. I hope you will be able to make it for Christmas this year. You are my refuge from the Weasley onslaught. Ginny will stop eventually. She hated me too, for a long time. The trick is to pretend you do not care.

Bring your sexy boyfriend. His voice makes my insides melt. I would imagine he can do other things with his mouth as well.

Your friend,

Fleur Delacour Weasley

 

“I adore that woman.”

“Yes, Severus, I know.”

“She had the baby, I suppose?”

“Last month. A girl, Victoire.”

Hermione opened the last letter.

 

Dear Hermione,

Happy Birthday to our dear girl. We hope you are doing well at university. It was Charlie’s favorite time of his life.

If you don’t already have plans, please come to Christmas at the Burrow, and if you have someone special, he is invited, too.

We love you,

Arthur and Molly

 

It was clearly Arthur’s writing, but Molly had signed her own name.

“You Gryffindors and your displays,” he said witheringly.

“They love me and you, too, apparently. And you’re one to talk about displays.”

He made a noise in his throat. “But that’s only for you, Darling.”

She moved off the bed to straighten her things, and he followed right behind her and murmured in her ear, “I’m going to fuck Hermione Granger from behind while she’s wearing a Slytherin shirt.”

_Declarations made by Draco Malfoy at the dungeon Christmas party_? Her mind found that hilarious, but her body was already gaping, waiting for him.

He firmly placed her on the bed on her belly and yanked her knickers down. He was crouching behind her with his hand shoved between her and the mattress rubbing her and testing her for readiness. In truth, she had been wet since Fleur’s letter. He lifted her hips with the other hand so she was on her knees, and he reached forward under her t-shirt and played with a nipple with his other hand.

“I’ve been hard since I woke up hours ago, he said in her ear.

“What are you going to do about it?” she said, surprising herself by how much her arousal had affected her not usually so husky voice.

“I’m going to fuck you from behind, and I’m going to make you come so hard you scream my name.” His voice was so low in her ear, someone at the door wouldn’t have been able to hear.

“Is your cock hard for me?” She asked him.

“My cock is all for you, Hermione.”

And with that he pounded it in her while he continued to rub her. It was a completely new experience. He could hit every spot this way and between his cock and his hand and his voice in her ear, she was undone in moments and cried out.

“Don’t come yet,” he hissed. “When you do it will make me come too, and I’m not finished fucking you.”

“You are the one…ahahahhh…you are the one with your hand…”

“Do you want me to take my hand away?”

“No!”

“You are so sexy, Hermione. I want to fuck you all day.”

“That sounds…ahhhahahh”

She tried to turn her mind down, this time to avoid the orgasm that was right there, to try to make this last longer. She went through the forty-five principles of arithmancy in her head and then back again. About every fifth one, she thought she was going to lose it.

“Are you ready to come?” He finally growled in her ear.

“Yes!”

“Go ahead.”

“Oooooooooooh, Severus, Oooooooooh…”

“Fuuuuuuck!” He came and they collapsed on the bed, both panting. He moved some hair that had fallen out of the clip aside from her neck, and kissed her behind her ear.

“Happy birthday, Darling,” he whispered.


	16. Chapter 16

**December 1999**

**Severus**

He apparated a few blocks from her flat. He would have used the floo network but he had two bags, and it was tricky. She was waiting for him in skin tight denims, an over-sized black jumper, and lace-up black boots to her knees, over which she had thrown a green velvet cloak. Every time he saw Hermione, her outfits were becoming stranger. The hair was still wild and everywhere, which he loved.

She flung herself against him and he dropped a bag and picked her up with one arm so her feet dangled when he kissed her.

He was not allowed to leave school during the week, and he only had one weekend off a month. This had never been a problem in the past, but now it meant that he rarely saw Hermione. He felt a conversation with the Headmistress was in his near future.

They walked quickly toward the flat.

“Longbottom home?” He asked her.

“Yes, and Hannah. They mentioned going to the park and café. Of course they’ll be back to dress this afternoon.”

They were all headed to the Burrow this evening for a pre-Christmas wedding. Miss Maisy Jones was with child, and she was to become an official Weasley post-haste. He had been invited outright, not just as Hermione’s date, shocking him when the owl dropped a very fancy looking letter from the Burrow on his lap at school a fortnight ago.

Hermione raced up the stairs of the building of her flat, pulling his hand up with her. Her sitting room was filled with detritus befitting an Herbology student.

“Mr. Longbottom, Miss Abbott,” Snape said as they passed quickly toward Hermione’s bedroom.

“Professor.” Longbottom was smirking at him. That was a first.

Crooks was waiting at the door.

“Crookshanks,” he said and the cat sneered at him, less friendly than Longbottom for sure.

“You’re going to spend some time out there,” she told Crooks while she was dumping him out of the room. “I’ll let you know when you can come back. Play with Neville and Hannah.”

The cat looked like his dignity had been thoroughly assaulted as he sauntered toward the sitting room.

Hermione shut the door with a bang and they both drew their wands.

“Silencio!” They both pointed at the door. “Securo,” they said together. They placed their wands on either side of the bed and started pulling off clothes. Hermione had cast a charm, and the laced boots fell open. She was shoving down her denims on top of the boots revealing bright green cotton knickers that also soon hit the floor. He made quick work of his buttons and his trousers and boots fell off. She pulled him on to the bed and on top of her with her knees splayed, and he entered her in seconds. Both of them breathed.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” he brushed her hair from her face and kissed her tenderly. Her little cunt was his favorite home. She pulled his jumper off and kissed his chest. She helped him remove hers to reveal a black cotton bra. He put his hands under her and undid the hook and eye, and pulled it down her arms. He kissed her breasts in turn and began to move in her. She started moaning immediately.

“I want you to make me come with your cock and your hand, and then after you come, I want you to make me come again with your mouth.”

“Bossy little witch,” he told her and put his hand down to help her along.

“I’m not ordering you, I’m just telling you uhhhhhhhh what I would like.”

He hadn’t heard from her since Tuesday. “Exams okay?” He was caressing her hair back from her forehead and kissing it gently. Gods, he loved this woman.

“Yes, Severus, I’ll tell you uhhhhhhh all about them later.”

“Okay.” He was feeling good about his choice to wank in the shower that morning to take the edge off. They hadn’t seen each other since mid-November. “I missed you,” he said and began sucking one of her nipples.

“You too, I missed you so much, Severus, that feeeeeeeeeels…”

He could feel her reaching a peak and he started thrusting harder. She managed to pull him over the edge every time she came. That little magic cunt would clinch his cock just so, and he would be falling with her through the abyss.

She came with a loud cry, and he was right there with her, everything in his body lit up white. He lost touch with present time just for a second, and when her regained it, he had a tit in his hand and three of his fingers were in her mouth. He kissed her neck and chuckled.

“You are too good to me, Hermione.”

“Oh, Severus, I missed you so much.”

He picked up his wand to scourgify before he went down on her.

“What are you doing? She asked.

“You want me to put my face in my own…”

“It would be much hotter. Why, is that weird?” She asked this sincerely. She won, of course.

Later in the bath they caught up with a week’s worth of conversation. She hated to talk via floo _ugh, disembodied heads_ , and she hadn’t had time to write much because of the hours of study on the time-table she had committed to. She looked gorgeously relaxed in the tub with her hair pinned above her head.

“Potions?” He asked her.

“Easy. I don’t think they’ll cover new ground this year.”

“Arithmancy?”

“So much fun. Harder than last year, but more fun. A lot of it is about the Internet, so thank you for that book.”

“Of course. History?”

“Medieval was tough. Most of it was objective, seriously, what the hell?  There are only so many Brunhildas one can keep straight. The essays were easy, though. Twentieth century paper is done, anyway. I think I did well writing about the American civil rights movement; I feel really good about that. I just hope my analysis of the house elf psychology of servitude held up. Who knows.”

“Must be a relief.”

“Yes. Did you bring your exams? I thought we could start on them tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to reading the second years’ and seeing how much my babies have learned.”

“Your babies have a long way to go.” But he was looking forward to grading with her, too, and feeling lucky he had a girlfriend who wanted to grade half his exams. He pictured them seated at the kitchen table with stacks of parchment and a pot of tea.

“Sounds as if you’re narrowing your focus,” he told her.

“I am. The head of the NAACP is speaking in London in January, and I’m going to attend and maybe ask some questions if I can wrangle it.”

“What’s naycep?”

“It’s a very important American civil rights organization.”

“Are you trying to draw a direct parallel between that movement and the situation with house elves?”

“No, that’s impossible. The house elves…” She shook her head. “What I want to study is how to affect change. That’s my goal for the rest of this year and next. Wilberforce, Gandhi, Dr. King, Malcolm X, Cesar Chavez, Frederick Douglas, Thurgood Marshall, Ida B. Wells, Betty Friedan, I’m going to learn from all of them.”

“And third year?” He chuckled.

“I am going to learn everything about wizard law code. Why don’t we have a law school, by the way?”

“No idea.”

“It’s part of the problem, don’t you think? Don’t train people to be able to fight this out at the Wizengamaaaaah,” she said the word like it was a nonsense land. “It gives all the power to the justices, none to the common people. You know, I’ve been thinking about going to Muggle law school.”

“Really, Hermione.”

“I would actually love to. It would be so challenging, but ultimately, I think it would be a waste of time. Too much study of Muggle law that would never apply, but ooooooh, it would be so interesting.”

“So you’re going to have your own law school.”

“Yes, I think so. I’m going to prepare to challenge law after law after law. Have you ever heard of the ACLU? It’s American.”

“No. Acklu?”

“Severus. That’s not how the letters work. You are winding me up.”

He laughed. “No, Darling. Tell me about Acklu.”

“It’s the American Civil Liberties Union, and its sole purpose is to file law suits on behalf of citizens whose rights are being abused. Can you even imagine?”

“The Ministry is going to hate you. I cannot wait.”

“I know; I can’t either. I have a list of grievances as long as my arm already. Just think about how long it will be after I have read every statute in the code.”

“And your professors?”

“Think I’m a lot. But that’s not my problem.”

“It sounds very heady and very exciting, Hermione. Meanwhile, I’ll be in my jail cell teaching imbeciles and breaking up fights.”

“Fourth years still?”

“My patience has been expended.”

“And you’re famous for your patience, Darling.” She smiled at him.

“I was hit on the mouth on Wednesday. Can you even imagine during your tenure as a student, if I had been hit on the mouth?”

“On purpose? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. No. I had to intervene between Rodney Balster and Matthew Bane when they decided to settle the Gryffindor/Slytherin conflict once and for all in the common room. I am having to monitor the common room, Hermione. I have no peace.”

“Failure of the new system?”

“I don’t think so. Particularly difficult class. Remember, Minerva nearly tore her hair out last year?”

“So, why do you stay?”

“Pardon?”

“Why are you staying at Hogwarts, Severus? You could get a job at any of a number of places. Why stay? I know the answer.”

“Are you my therapist now?”

“No, I’m the person who loves you. You stay because you care about that school, and you want it to succeed, and you are loyal to Professor McGonagall. That’s why.”

“If you say so.”

“Does anyone know about us? I’m just curious. Personally, I want to shout it from the mountain tops.”

This girl wanted to shout that she loved him. It was almost too much.

“Poppy knows. Poppy knows everything. Usually Minerva also knows everything Poppy knows, but since I haven’t been called to the office to explain why I’m sullying the Gryffindor Princess, I’m going to assume Poppy is being discrete. Pomona thinks she knows I’m seeing someone, but I haven’t confirmed. I suppose it won’t be a secret after tonight.”

“No. I can’t wait to see your new dress robes. Will you help me wash my hair?”

They stood and turned on the shower and he scrubbed and rinsed the whole mane and applied her conditioner. While it set, she knelt in front of him and sucked his cock until he came down her throat. He hadn’t finished that way in years; it hadn’t been on the menu with Alla.

Later, he stretched out on her bed in his new black dress trousers and a white undershirt. He was flipping through one of her books on American civil rights, trying to learn about what she was talking about, but the hair show at the vanity in front of him was distracting. She had put on the black lace set he had given her for her birthday, suspenders and all. He reckoned if he hadn’t already come three times that day, there was no way they would leave the flat.

Between magic and Muggle products, the hair was every bit the ordeal she had described. Drying charm, some kind of tonic, straightening charm that wasn’t as effective as she hoped so she redid several times. Finally, she gave up and piled it on top of her head, securing it with his mother’s silver and emerald combs and several other silver decorative clips. She had a few sections of hair that were still down. It looked messy on purpose, but very modern and elegant in its own way.

The belt on her suspenders sat about two inches above the knickers, and he noticed he could see her hip bones jutting out.

“Have you been eating enough?”

“No.”

“Will you please start feeding yourself?”

“I plan to. I’ve been in the midst of exam hell for two weeks. You know what that’s like. Anyway, I’m starting tonight.”

“Say what you will about Molly, she’s a fabulous cook.”

“I hope she doesn’t poison me.”

“We can switch plates.”

“I hope she doesn’t poison you.”

She was pulling on a very dark burgundy velvet dress that was cut low down the front and cinched in her waist. The skirt was gathered in places, layered, and shorter in the front than the back, where it came down to her ankles. It looked like it was designed about a hundred years ago but had modernized touches here and there.

“That isn’t even pretending to be robes, Hermione.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s stunning. Where did you get it?”

“Vintage shop. I modified it here to pull the skirt like this.”

“Clever.”

“I have a black velvet cloak I bought at the same place that will make it look more like robes. Help me charm my scar? I’m apparently useless today.”

He grabbed his wand and stood up. He kissed down the visible part of her scar on her chest. She put her fingers through his hair.

“Severus…”

“Okay. He cast a concealment charm that made the scar fade to a light pink line. No one would see it unless they wear standing very close in very bright light. Still she put some makeup on it and then started on her face while he put on his white dress shirt, white silk cravat, and black silk robe, cut very close to his body and adorned with a long row of silk covered buttons down the front.

“Gorgeous,” she told him in the mirror, lining her eyes dramatically in black.

“Thank you.” The new set was very plain but high quality. He wanted to look elegant beside her. She finished her look with dark lipstick and put on the cloak.

“Beautiful,” he told her and kissed her lightly on the mouth so as not to smudge her lips. She wiped his off anyway, and put her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“We have two whole weeks,” he said back but would have been content to stay right there all night.

They walked out of the room to meet Longbottom and Miss Abbott, who were waiting for them in the sitting room, ready to go. The group walked down the street and apparated to the Burrow.

They were met at the point by Percy, Bill, and Charlie Weasley in formal dress robes.

“You look radiant, Sir.” Bill said.

“Hermione, you don’t look bad either,” Charlie said. “But Professor, who knew you cleaned up so well.”

“Charming,” Severus said. Hermione hugged them all in turn.

“Sit where you would like. No bride’s family tonight,” Percy told them.

Hermione took Severus’s hand and found seats about half way back on the groom’s side. The garden was decorated with hundreds of lights strung up and Christmas themed foliage. The temperature was just right with visible frost in the fields.

Longbottom and Abbott sat beside Hermione. Longbottom looked as good as Snape had ever seen him; it was almost impossible to recognize the feckless first year that had confounded Snape. University and Miss Abbott appeared to be doing wonders for him.

Some ancient Weasley relatives were seated and then Molly, who looked happy enough but harried, and Arthur, who looked like he was along for the ride. Weasley, looking terrified, walked out of the back house entrance followed by Potter and George. He heard Hermione’s breath hitch beside him, and he took her hand. She had tears falling down her cheeks.

“It’s not…I just always assumed I’d be a part of this, not as the bride, but with them for this. Ron looks like he’s afraid. I should have been with him back there. Oooooooh,” she was whispering in a fast clip in his ear.

He put his arm around her, pulling her as close as he could and handed her a handkerchief.

“Tell him that tonight. You have your whole life to be the three, the trio, Hermione. It’s not over.”

“I love you,” she whispered and dabbed her eyes.

He squeezed her close.

Fleur marched down the aisle like she was the star, and she certainly could be. Her silver dress accentuated every curve. There were gasps as she passed, which made Hermione giggle.

“Eyes front, Severus,” she whispered.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Miss Weasley was next, in gold. Severus begrudgingly admitted to himself that she had never looked better.

“Look at Harry’s face,” Hermione whispered, and the tears were back, but happy this time.

Sure enough, Potter had a look of pure love for Miss Weasley; Severus anticipated another wedding here very soon. Potter looked like a man up there.

The bride, in white, was escorted by Charlie on one side and Bill on the other, although Bill was openly staring at his wife. A beautiful baby with huge blue eyes had been passed to Arthur and was unmistakably Victoire Weasley, that Veela heritage was immutable apparently.

 The bride had a visible bump at the front of her dress but looked lovely. Weasley was in tears at the sight of his soon to be wife walking toward him, and Hermione erupted in a fresh batch herself.

“Oooooooh, it’s so beautiful.”

“That’s what the patriarchy wants you to think,” he whispered to her, and she giggled again.

The ceremony was short but heartfelt. When Weasley was bound to his bride, Severus once again took Hermione’s hand. He felt a pang of regret that she would almost certainly never agree to be bound to him because of her objections to the laws. She must have either read his thoughts or perhaps felt a similar pang because she held his hand tightly, brought it up to her lap, and covered it with her own.

After the vows concluded, the space was transfigured to a banquet hall complete with elaborately decorated tables and place cards. They started looking for their names with no luck when Potter approached, and Hermione flung herself at him with more tears.

“Haaaarrrrryyyyy, I miss you two, I miss you soooooooo much. How is Ron? He looked so old and happy and oooooooooh!”

“It’s okay, Hermione.” Potter embraced her tightly and rubbed her back comfortingly.

_Sod. That’s my job._

“We miss you, too, every day,” Potter said comfortingly while glancing somewhat apologetically at Snape.

Hermione finally detached herself so Potter could address them.  “Evening, Professor. You both look…wow. You are at the head table,” he said, apparently to both of them. “You are family.”

Severus pulled another handkerchief and handed it to her, offered his arm, and followed Potter to their seats.

“Do I have any makeup left?” She whispered to him.

“A bit.”

To his delight, he was seated by Fleur.

“Well, well,” he whispered to Hermione.

“I’ll be watching you,” she said with a smile.

Ginny was on his other side, Hermione was across from him, and Potter was next to Hermione. This was going to be interesting. Ginny approached the table and froze.

“Harry,” she hissed, and Snape realized that Potter had engineered this whole arrangement. His estimation for the boy rose again slightly.

Hermione stood up immediately and went to Ginny.

“Ginny, don’t be mad. I asked him to help me. I miss you so much, you have no idea. Please don’t be angry with me anymore. You’re the only sister I’ve ever had,” she subtly shot Fleur an apologetic look. Fleur winked. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

Ginny looked stunned. Her face had turned bright red. Tears were welling in her eyes. “Hermione,” she said with obvious love.

Hermione wasted not a second to embrace her old friend.

“Hermione, I’m sorry. I said such hateful things. I was so hurt. I just wanted you to marry the git so we would always be together.”

“We will, Ginny. You look so beautiful, and Harry is so in love with you. Did you see his face? When you walked up the aisle?”

“I didn’t. I was so nervous.”

“Oh, Ginny. I hope Neville took a picture.”

“You look gorgeous, Hermione. You look tiny. Are you eating?”

“I’m trying,” Hermione laughed.

They took their seats and for the first time Miss Weasley realized whom she was seated next to. She gave an exasperated sigh.

“You had better be good to her,” she told him menacingly.

“Ginny!” Potter reprimanded her.

She turned again to Snape. “You look nice,” she said, very much on guard.

“You look lovely yourself, Miss Weasley.”

“Why is Hermione so small?” She asked him accusingly.

“Too much studying; neither she nor Longbottom can boil an egg, too many things to read would be my guess. I’m only able to see her once a month, but be assured that I am aware and will find a solution.”

“That’s good. She looks happy,” Miss Weasley admitted begrudgingly.

“I assure you it is mutual. I have never been happier, Miss Weasley,” he said with candor that surprised him.

“That day in the dungeon that I almost beaned you with that frame.” She had a sly smile.

“That was something.”

“I’ve been terrified more than I ever want to be in my life; that moment when you drew your wand as the glass smashed by the door is in the top five.” She laughed.

“It was rather frightening for me as well.”

“No!” She looked at him in happy amazement.

“Why do you think I drew my wand?”

There were speeches about the happy couple and oblique references to the double blessing. Hermione’s eyes found him and her eyebrows shot up. _If either one of them could cast a serviceable contraceptive charm_ could have been written above her head.

Finally it was time to tuck in. Three kinds of roasted meat, root vegetables of every variety, Yorkshire pudding, bowls of gravy immediately appeared. Wine filled the goblets; it was good but not great. Hermione ate a healthy plate’s worth and he and Ginny shared a moment of mutual satisfaction.

After dinner the bride and groom cut the cake, and portions instantly arrived where the dinner plates had been whisked away. Lemon with strawberry sauce, chocolate with toffee sauce, vanilla cream with treacle. Severus sampled each one; even for a someone who wasn’t keen on desserts, these were gorgeous. He passed his plate to Hermione for her to finish and got an arm pat from Miss Weasley to his right.

Just then, Fleur on his left turned to him.

“I ‘aven’t beeen able to speak to you all night, Professor. Promise me a dance,” she whispered in her sexy French accent.

“I am counting on it, Mrs. Weasley.”

When everyone was full with feast and cake, the tables disappeared and a band began to set up for dancing. Smaller tables appeared on the periphery of the dance floor and tables of champagne and chocolates were interspersed. He fetched two glasses and returned to Hermione’s side; a place he had missed terribly.

“You and Ginny are quite a match,” she said.

“We should probably be friends, don’t you think. It will make future occasions much more bearable.” That earned him a kiss on the cheek. “I promised Fleur I would dance with her.”

“That’s fine, Darling. Perhaps we can play Veela and Weasley later.”

“I don’t think I could even fake Weasley,” he said.

“You can be the Veela.”

The bride and groom danced, and then the wedding party couples and parents, and then they were all invited. He broke his resolve of not dancing to Warbeck and led Hermione to the floor where they clutched each other and swayed. At the end of the song, Weasley tapped Hermione on the shoulder and looked at Snape for permission. Snape was tapped at that moment by Fleur.

He was thoroughly distracted during the dance, for which he blamed Weasley. He watched the other couple dance and chat, then Hermione started to cry, then Weasley looked concerned and forgiving, then his beautiful girlfriend cried on the tosser’s shoulder. _Could this song be any longer?_ He didn’t pay a bit of attention to what his partner was saying, truly unfortunate because he had been looking forward to entertaining Hermione with more Fleur impersonations, and truly unfortunate because, well…Fleur.

Hermione kissed Ron on the cheek and went to pick up two more glasses of champagne.

“How was that?” Severus asked her as she handed him a glass.

“Fine. Good. I can’t believe he’s going to be a father.”

Ten minutes later, Severus was at a table with Potter, Longbottom, and all of the Weasley brothers except Ron, witnessing a spirited quidditch debate. It’s not that he didn’t have opinions on the subject, but he wasn’t going to participate with this gang of former students. Ginny was perched on Potter’s knee. Bill was practically holding his wife in his lap like a sleepy child. Baby Victoire had already been put to bed, apparently. Miss Abbott had scooted a chair right next to Longbottom and was lazily running her finger through the bit of hair that hung on his forehead, making it curl. And Snape’s girlfriend? She was three tables over having a heated conversation with Arthur’s colleagues from the Ministry with Arthur looking on proudly. Severus couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was doing a copious amount of arm waving and finger pointing. He walked over to one of the tables overflowing with chocolates and picked a variety he thought she might like. He approached her table while she was making a point.

“But who decided that? Who decided that unlike every free society on earth, that we don’t need a strong advocacy system? Who decided to model our justice system on the ones behind the Iron Curtain during the Cold War?”

The wizards around the table were looking at her in confusion and in some cases condescension. He delivered her chocolates and another glass of champagne and kissed her on the head.

“Fight the power,” he whispered, and he walked back to _Quidditch Tonight_.

“Never have I ever had a threesome!” George was saying.

_Ugh_.

Fleur was the only one who drank.

“Darling!” Bill said incredulously.

“Eet was long ago, Beeel. Long ago.”

“It couldn’t have been that long.” Bill said indignantly.

“Ees my turn,” she said. “Nevair have I ever…had sex at the Quidditch World Cup!”

Snape rolled his eyes. He noticed Ginny was looking at him sheepishly.

Hermione pulled up a chair and joined the group.

“Did you win?” Severus asked her.

“Not yet.” She pulled something out of her bag and handed it to him under the table. He expected to find his handkerchiefs returned. Instead, he looked down to find the black lace knickers.

Hello, cock.

“I want you right now, Severus,” she whispered in his ear, which had a direct line to his groin, apparently. “I know a place we can go. Walk casually as if we’re going to get another drink and then follow me slowly,” she whispered.

She nonchalantly rose from her chair and started wandering toward the drink table. He meandered behind her from the table into the house. No one was in sight. She grabbed his hand, and they started walking quickly up the stairs.

“How many staircases are there in this house?” he asked after the fourth flight.

“Two more.”

At the very top there were three doors.

“This is Bill and Charlie’s old bathroom” she said as she pulled him in the room and closed the door.

He drew his wand to charm and ward.

“No one ever comes up here,” she said and covered his mouth with hers.

“Are you sure?” He said into her mouth.

“Yes, and it’s hotter this way.” This idea had led to all sorts of calamity recently.

He picked her up under her arse and placed her on the basin that he hoped was sturdy. She was unbuttoning his fly and freeing his rock hard cock. Her skirt pulled up easily in front, and he got a glimpse of those gartered stockings and her glorious, wet cunt as he slammed into her and she let out a guttural moan. She wrapped her legs around him as he started thrusting with abandon. He had one arm around her arse to steady her against the bathroom mirror and one hand rubbing her.

“Grab my tit,” she gasped in his ear.

“With which hand?”

“Not that one!” She said looking down.

He removed his arm from behind her and pushed her back so she was braced against the mirror. He put his hand over her breast and pressed in as her continued to thrust. He met her mouth and she sucked on his tongue and then called out loudly, “Fuck me!”

All of a sudden there was a knock at the door. She froze, but he continued to move in her quietly. He was almost on the edge and he was playing with it while enjoying the suggestion of an audience.

“Who’s eeeeeen there?”

“It’s me. It’s Hermione,” she looked at him and made an embarrassed face. “I’ll be out in a minute.” She put her head on his shoulder in mortification.

“Shhhhhhhh,” he said and non-verbally cast a silencing charm on the basin so it wouldn’t bang into the wall. He continued to fuck her hard and deliberately but very quietly. He murmured in her ear in a tone only she could hear. “You are going to come, Hermione. I am going to make you come, and you are not going to make a sound.” He was pounding in her hard; maybe borderline too hard. He licked his thumb showily and then alternated circling her clitoris with pressing down directly in exactly the way she liked. Her head flew back and she clamped down on his cock. She wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him and came so hard that she sucked him in further and then he came clutching her arse with one hand, trying to move in even deeper.

“Shhhhhhhhh,” she said, trying to suppress laughter.

He carefully pulled out of her and started buttoning himself back up, as she quietly hopped off the basin and straightened her skirt. He handed her knickers back, and she charmed them on without having to unclip her stockings.

He kissed her gently on the mouth before he took her hand and they headed for the door. She wiped some lipstick off him and smiled.

Fleur and Bill were waiting right outside the door, his hand up her skirt, her tongue in his ear.

“All yours,” Hermione said brightly.

“You might want to ward the door,” Snape told them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summer 2000**

**Hermione**

 

To: [HJGranger@TLUniversity.edu](mailto:HJGranger@TLUniversity.edu)

From: [STSnape@btinternet.com](mailto:STSnape@btinternet.com)

Re: Meeting Place for 18 August

Apparate at 6:00 P.M. to ally, west side, Sully Green, London. I will be there. 

Love you, Darling.

STS

 

He sent the cryptic message and immediately went back to school where he wouldn’t be able to clarify. She looked up the street online, and it was in a residential area in North London. There wasn’t a hotel in sight.

She packed some summer clothes and tried to let him be in control.

 

**August**

 

He was there looking like a man who had conquered the world. She was wearing an orange and pink paisley mini-dress that had probably first been sold in 1966, with orange platform sandals and a macramé bag to complete the look. He was momentarily stunned, and it wiped off his victorious look for a moment.

“You look mod,” he said levelly.

“The whole outfit, shoes and all, was three quid, can you imagine?”

“What a startling deal.”

“Where are we going, where are you taking me Severus?”

“Patience. It’s just down the street.”

She paused to kiss him, and when he lifted her slightly off the ground, the dress rode up behind her to expose the back of her bright orange cotton knickers. He put her down and put his hand flat on her arse. She was pressed against him with her arms around him, wrapping her tongue around his.

“Darling,” he said in her mouth.

“Yes?”

“Let’s go.”

He took her by the hand and they walked up a street in a Muggle neighborhood filled with pre-World War I townhouses that were clearly being bought up and improved. They reached the steps in front of number 45, and he stopped.

“Welcome home, Hermione.”

“Is this a b and b?”

“No, this is our house.”  


 

 

**June**

Ginny had appeared breathless in the floo at the flat telling Hermione that Maisy had gone into labour, and to come to St. Mungo’s. Hermione had completed her last exam hours before and congratulated Maisy silently on her superb timing.

Ginny, her parents, brothers, Fleur, and Victoire were waiting outside a room in the delivery ward. Hermione could hear Maisy moaning inside the room and Ron attempting to be comforting but sounding very anxious.

“You’re doing great, Mais. You’re doing just so…great.”

Molly was fretting and wanting to be in the room, but apparently Maisy had laid down the law: Ron only. Molly acknowledged Hermione with a curt _Hello_ and went back to talking rapidly to Arthur about how important it is for young mothers to have lots of family support.

“Where’s Harry?” Hermione asked Ginny, handing her a bakery bag she had picked up before she had flooed in. She felt like it was bad form to show up empty handed. She also had a non-gender specific outfit for the baby, a sleeper with her uni logo.

“He is on until 11:00; with Ron here they’re short-handed.” She picked out a cinnamon bun and handed the bag to her parents.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Arthur said loudly. Molly sniffed.

“So you’ve finished exams? You must be so relieved,” Ginny told her.

“I am. I start a summer course in a week, but it’s online, which means I can complete it without having to physically attend class.”

Hermione was taking a class at Howard University in Washington D.C. called _Dred Scott to Plessy to Brown: Civil Rights and the Supreme Court_ , but she doubted Ginny wanted to hear the details.

 “Is it like a time-turner?”

“A little bit. More like attending class via floo. How is your course going?” Ginny was training to teach in a wizard primary school.

“It’s fine. I’m not sure it’s what I want to do. I don’t have any other plans, though.”

“You have plenty of time,” Hermione told her.

“Are you keeping your job for the summer?”

“Yes, and I can take my class from my desk at the arithmancy department.”

“You have a floo at your desk?”

“Oh, no, I have a computer, have you heard of that? It’s Muggle technology that the professors I work for are studying.”

“All right then, Hermione,” Ginny laughed. “Are you going to see Professor Snape?”

“Am I going to _see_ him? Yes, Ginny. He’s going to be at the flat anytime he doesn’t have to be at Hogwarts or at his home in Cokeworth. He and Madam Pomfrey are working on the hospital wing stores this summer, so he’ll be as busy as I am, but I imagine we’ll be together a few days a week.”

“So, it’s serious, then?” Ginny was incredulous. Hermione was used to this reaction in acquaintances, but she was exasperated to hear it from a friend. She and Severus had hardly time to see each other the last six months, and they hadn’t socialized with her friends aside from Neville and Hannah, but they were together in every possible way other than proximity.

“Is it that hard to fathom?”

“Yes, Hermione! I can’t figure it out, frankly. Why on earth would you take that on?”

“Pardon?”

“Ugh, you know what I mean! He’s awful. He was awful to us in school. He was awful to you!”

“You don’t even have to look terribly deep to realize there’s so much more to him, and so much more to that story, Ginny,” she felt her blood rising into her head. “I don’t have to defend him. I love him. I’m happy. And Harry seems fine with it,” she added as the thought popped into her head.

“Harry and I don’t agree on everything,” Ginny retorted.

 “Neither do Severus and I, but we do agree on all of the major things and a lot of the minor, and that’s enough.”

“Okay, I understand that. But _Snape_? You share a bed with _Snape_? You’ve seen him brush his teeth, and you know what kind of pants he wears? I just…”

Hermione laughed. “Yes! All of those things. But before any of that, we had shared probably a hundred pots of tea, laughed at the same things, were enraged by the same things, and had a mutual attraction, for quite a while, actually, before anything happened. And there are so many things more important than what kind of toothpaste someone uses. I know what terrifies him, I know what he likes to read and what music he loves and why; I know what he values.”

“How long?”

“Sorry?”

“How long was there a mutual attraction? Is that why you broke up with…”

“No! Ginny, you were there at school when that happened. Severus was still in hospital when I broke up with Ron. Severus didn’t even know I was the one teaching his classes until he returned.”

“So this didn’t start during sixth year?”

“No, Ginny. You must think I’m horrible.” Hermione was fighting back tears.

“I don’t; it just doesn’t make sense. How did it begin?”

“I gave him a birthday present. I gave him a Christmas present, too. I really wasn’t thinking of him as more than an office-mate at the time, well, maybe as someone I wanted to get to know better, but I certainly wasn’t trying to hook him or anything. We started really talking at his birthday, and it just...continued. Little things happened every day.”

“And big things, then?” Ginny’s tone was still skeptical.

“Graduation. I wouldn’t have had anyone, Ginny. He made it special for me.”

“But you _would_ have had people, Hermione. You didn’t because of your own choices.”

“Are you talking about Ron or about my parents?”

“Ron, of course. Hermione, you surely don’t think I blame you for your parents.”

“Should I have stayed together with Ron so I could be in your family even though we weren’t right for each other? His wife is having his baby right now; he seems so happy.”

“It just feels like you broke up with all of us. I keep trying to get past it, but you…I don’t even recognize you sometimes, and I’m not just talking about your hair and what you’re wearing.”

Hermione glanced at her outfit, a pink mid-drift blouse made to be worn under a sari, covered by huge faded blue denim dungarees cut at the knee. She had taken her wand to the frayed edges for a cleaner look. She had on her favorite black Chuck Taylors, and she had thrown her school robe over the outfit to be more appropriate for hospital visitation.

“I am the same person! I study too much, I obsess too much, I love you all the same. When I was packing up house before the move to Australia, I only took some of my clothes They were all ruined during the quest. I don’t have very much money, and there is a whole row of second-hand and vintage shops near university. I find the wacky clothes less depressing than staid ones. My hair—I just wanted a new look.”

Harry rushed in just then, breathless. Ten minutes later, they finally heard cries coming from the room.

 Hugo Frederick Weasley had smallish eyes, a tiny nose, no hair, and was the undeniably adorable. Hermione waited until Molly clutched the baby and then whispered congratulations to Ron and Maisy. Ron embraced her.

“Thank you for being here, Hermione.” He said with tears from the birth still in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

She left her gift on the table and quietly left the room unnoticed.

 

 

**August**

 

She stood there stunned. “What do you mean, Severus?”

“It’s our house. I bought it for us.”

“How…?” She sat down on the steps, almost collapsing in shock. She was still holding his hand, and he sat beside her, turned so he was partially facing her.

“I didn’t think I could have you stay at school. The more I thought about having you to the house on Spinners’ End, the more it didn’t seem right. I’ve never been happy there. I just couldn’t picture us at that table or in my bedroom or in my parents’ room. I’ve spent the last year going through everything in the house. I started thinking about where we could have our own life. I know you’ll probably be at the university for a lot of the time; I’m committed to Hogwarts. But for the times when we can get away and live on our own, I wanted a house that was truly ours.”

“But how? This place must have cost…”

“I sold my house. It didn’t fetch much, but I had fixed it up some. I sold it for slightly more than I was expecting. I’ve been drawing a salary for almost twenty years and have hardly spent anything. I had enough to buy this place without going broke.”

“You sold your house?” She couldn’t quite believe it.

“Without a second thought once I made the decision. I had a meeting with the Headmistress a few months ago in which I informed her I was no longer interested in being chained to the school except for two and a half days a month. She told me you were welcome to live there with me.”

“What?”

“She said, _of course Hermione is welcome here_.”

“I had no idea she knew about us,” Hermione was having a hard time comprehending all of the news.

“I didn’t either. I was expecting a strop about you deserving better.”

Hermione snorted derisively.

“It turns out she’s happy for us. We don’t want to live at Hogwarts, though, don’t you think?”

“No, I want to live here.”

“Ms. Emerson is taking over my fourth and fifth year dungeon service starting next year. I will only have to spend one weekend a month at school. I’m not teaching Fridays.”

She threw her arms around his neck.

 

 

 

**July**

Hermione flooed into 12 Grimmauld Place with Neville too close behind her. He slammed into her back so she tripped out of the floo and scampered half way across the room trying to regain her balance in her black platform wedge sandals.

“Sorry, Hermione,” she could hear him behind her.

She practically landed in George’s lap.

“Hellllooooo, Granger! Nice frock!” George laughed.

Hermione realized her black sheath dress had slipped way too low in the front during her tumble, and that half of her purple lace bra was showing. She adjusted her dress and tried to hide her exasperation at Neville, who was balancing the four tomato plants he had insisted on taking via floo, which she had told him was a terrible idea.

“Thanks, George. Which way to the drinks?”

“Sitting room, let’s go!” George led the way. Extra seating had been brought in, and there were several tables with large tubs filled with ice and different kinds of drinks, as well as a more than adequate wine selection at its own table. Harry had spared no expense for his engagement party. There was discrete gift table in the corner, so she visited it first, before it was filled with tomato plants. She had brought two packages: one a large architecture book on the history of houses in the style of Grimmauld Place with photos of original décor. The other was a set of vintage wine glasses Severus had found that were from the era of the design and construction of the house. She placed the gifts on the table, and then examined the wine selection and poured herself a generous glass of Merlot.

Kreature entered the room from the kitchen with a huge tray of hors d’oeuvres, at least half his body weight, and she had to physically restrain herself from taking it from him.

“Those look gorgeous, Kreature,” she told him, trying not to hover but concerned that he was about to topple.

“Thank you, Miss,” he mumbled.

Harry and Ginny followed from the kitchen, each with trays of their own, and this time, Hermione didn’t hesitate to help.

“Congratulations,” she hugged them both after they had set the trays on the large food table.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry held on to the embrace for a moment, and she could feel his heart beating fast.

He had proposed to Ginny two weeks ago at the Burrow in the middle of a pick-up quidditch match. There had been a ring in the snitch. Hermione hadn’t been there, but she had heard the details from both Ginny, who thought it was the most romantic gesture imaginable, and Fleur, who thought it was hokey beyond words. Hermione’s opinion lay somewhere in the middle.

“Is Professor Snape here?” Harry asked her.

“He’s arriving from Hogwarts in a little while. He and Madam Pomfrey are almost finished restocking hospital-wing potions for the year. He’s been there a fortnight.

Ron and Maisy with tiny Hugo in a sling had flooed in from their new flat close to the Ministry. Ron looked completely knackered, but Maisy was beautiful and still glowing seven weeks after giving birth.

Hermione settled in a comfortable sofa where she could see everyone enter and watch the party. She had finished a paper for her Supreme Court class, an analysis on the injustice of the Dred Scott decision that afternoon and was feeling unburdened and happy. She had relaxed her hair into soft curls down her back for the occasion, and she couldn’t keep her hands off it. It felt so different from her crunchy ringlets she had worn for a year. She wore subdued jewelry, going for elegant rather than zany.

She was pleased when Ron with a beer in a huge stein and Maisy with water settled themselves next to her. Hugo was sleeping peacefully with one eye visible and a little lock of red hair in front.

“A redhead! Who would have guessed?” She whispered to Maisy.

“You don’t have to be quiet. He’s only awake from eleven P.M. to seven A.M.,” Ron said. “He still has three hours of sleep before it’s time for him to come alive for the night.”

“Ron!” Maisy chided with a laugh.

“He’s so precious,” Hermione noticed one little foot hanging out of the sling. “May I?” she asked before she touched.

“Of course. He seems fairly indestructible,” Maisy answered, and Hermione ran her finger up and down the back of the tiny foot from tiny heel to tiny toes. She hadn’t had much experience with babies, hardly any not counting mandrakes. The foot was wrinkled and had microscopic toenails on the other side.

“Weasley stock, you know,” Ron said proudly. “Where’s Snape?”

“He should be here soon. He’s at Hogwarts.”

“And you’re working and in school this summer?”

“Yes, but only one class and I’ve all but finished. I plan to do as little as possible before term starts again.”

“Sounds nice,” Maisy said.

Hermione brought the little foot to her mouth and kissed the sole gently.

“Would you like to hold him, Hermione? If he wakes up and stays awake for a while, we might get some sleep tonight,” Maisy was unfastening the sling.

Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to hold the baby; seemed like a lot of responsibility, but she didn’t want to say no.

The bundle was lighter than she expected and disconcertingly wiggly. So very adorable, though. Hugo stretched and made a face and a tiny noise, opened his eyes a crack, shot her a look like _who the hell are you_ , and promptly went back to sleep.

“He likes to have his bum patted,” Maisy told her.

“Again, Weasley stock,” Ron added.

Hermione was patting the tiny bum when Severus appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his dark denims and boots and a black _Smiths_ t-shirt beneath a light-weight charcoal blazer. His hair was shorter than the last time she had seen him, shorter than she had ever seen it. She caught her breath at the site of him, and both Ron and Maisy looked over. Ron groaned good-naturedly.

Severus strode over to them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Hermione and…Hugo?”

“Hugo Frederick, Sir,” Ron replied.

“Please call me Severus…or Snape,” Hermione could tell he was thinking that he would never call the other man _Ron_.  “Not _Sir_. Congratulations on the birth of your son.”

“Thank you, Professor…er, Snape,” Ron said.

Suddenly Hugo woke, looked in Severus’s direction and let out a wail.

Hermione bit her lip hard so she wouldn’t laugh. Maisy took the baby to find a quiet spot to feed him, and Ron tagged along.

Severus found the wine table and poured a brimming glass of Bordeaux.  

“That was quite an image, you and the baby.”

“I’m going to chuck uni and become pregnant as soon as possible.”

He smirked. “Right.”

“Not even a little concerned?” she pouted.

“You looked like you were holding a bag of potatoes that had been rigged to explode at any moment.”

“That was me, not the baby. He’s lovely. Apparently doesn’t sleep at night, though.”

“You can’t mount a revolution without being well-rested.” They had settled in a far corner, backs against the wall, the perfect spot to see everything without being noticed.

“Agree. Hi,” she said and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

He put his arms around her and pressed her close planting a kiss on the side of her head above her right ear.

“You look horrendously sexy tonight, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, Professor, you as well,” she settled in under one of his arms.

“Your hair; I can’t imagine the time…”

“Just got lucky with the right charm. I finished the paper and everything fell into place.”

“You turned it in on the computer?”

“Yes; received confirmation it arrived. First school assignment I haven’t hand written since I was ten.”

“Magic,” he laughed.

“It’s the daily joke of the arithmancy department. It isn’t magic, but it is.” She took his forearm and slid her hand down until it was clasped in his. “My professor at Howard told me about an unpaid internship with the Southern Poverty Law Center, next summer. It’s in Alabama. I really want to apply if I can figure out a way to finance it.”

“Bonus if you convince the Ministry to pay.”

“Ooooooh, that would be nice,” she hadn’t even thought of that.

“Why does your professor think a young English woman would be interested; what have you told him?”

“Everything. I told him I wanted to liberate whole races of elves, goblins, and trolls.”

He rolled his eyes a tiny bit but smiled in the way that made her want to melt into him.

“He thinks I’m trying to emulate the ACLU in Britain, focusing on the most marginalized populations. Would you consider going with me? Six weeks in America next summer?”

He looked stunned, far more so than when he had walked in on her holding Hugo.

“America—Alabama?  Unless Mr. Bush is president and decides not to let us in, I can’t think of a reason why not.” He pulled her into an embrace again.

“Good. You can help me with a grant proposal. I need your Slytherin brain.”

“It’s yours.” He was focused on a spot at her shoulder. He took one finger and traced down a strap, just under the neckline of her dress. “Lovely.”

“It’s new. The back is mesh; it’s quite fetching.”

“Would you call that violet or lilac?”

“I would call it royal purple.”

“I see. And I presume there are royal purple knickers as well?”

“Of course.”

“How long do we have to stay?” he asked.

“Have you spoken to Harry and Ginny yet?”

“They were holding court with the Order in the foyer when I arrived.”

“We should probably seek an audience.”

He finished the contents of his glass in three quick swallows. “Let me refill, and we’ll go find them. Then we can leave?”

“Kreature put out some delicious looking…”

“I’ll get more wine, you grab some nourishment, we’ll throw ourselves at Potter and Miss Weasley, and then can…we…go?”

An hour and a half later they were lying in her four-poster in the flat, black clothes and purple underthings on the floor. He was on his back, and her head was pressed against his chest, her leg sprawled across his body. He was lightly massaging the outside of her upper thigh, and she was still charged, nerves out from an orgasm she had felt to the ends of her hair.

“The loss of the post-coital cigarette is still painful,” he was looking rather smug in spite of his pronouncement.

“Therapy this week?” She asked him.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“That’s the only time you mention smoking any more. And your hair is shorter—you saw Anabel?”

“Yes. I can now band it on top and the back stays short. Why I didn’t do this for brewing years ago, I have no idea.”

“A bit of security blanket, yeah?”

“I suppose.”

“Your voice sounds restored; how long will you be in therapy.”

“Until Barbara Cooney-Gould thinks I’m a whole, healthy person. Today is the day I allow my body to relax and let my mind achieve the sleep it needs.”

“Oh, I hope it is!”

They heard Neville and Hannah bound loudly in the door. Both Hermione and Severus drew their wands and cast spells to keep the noise away.

“Charming flatmates,” he said.

“They could be worse; they are unfailingly kind and Hannah, as you know, is an excellent cook. You can call off the dog, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can tell Hannah to back off—I know you have been paying her, Severus. The grocery budget magically tripled, she’s here several nights a week and has enough leftovers in the fridge to feed a staff of trolls. Anytime I forget a meal, she arrives in my work space with a plate and a fork and won’t leave until it’s clean. I’ve gained half a stone since Christmas.”

“I admit nothing, but why would we change course when it has been so obviously effective?”

“I can feed myself, Severus.”

“We shall see.”

“Are you done at Hogwarts?” She let out a long yawn, and Severus brought her closer to him.

“Nearly. We’ve stocked enough painkiller, cold remedy, and contraceptive for the year.  We’re going to work on the more obscure potions this week.”

“Are you going to Cokeworth at all?”

“I’ve finished culling through my parents’ possessions,” he said softly. He was stroking her hair with his fingers and she was losing the battle to stay awake.

“Love you, Darling,” she said as she drifted off.

 

**August**

 

“Would you like to see inside?”

They scrambled up to the door.

“There are keys, but it’s also charmed,” he flicked his wand and the locks clicked. He opened the door and motioned for her to enter first.

There was a large living space broken into a dining room with a large, dark table and chairs and a sitting room with several couches and small tables. The space was divided by a large wooden set of stairs that seemed to free-float in the room, but was moored to the floor.

“Come in the sitting room first,” he told her and let the way. There were couches, and overstuffed chairs, and ottomans. There was a television in the corner.

“I tried to buy a video tape player, but the man in the store said this is the technology now,” he pointed to a thin, black box. “It’s called a DVD. The movies are on disks. The music is, too, but you can also store it on your computer—you probably already know that.”

She was still too stunned for coherent conversation.

“The dining room, I only have a table and chairs; I thought you might want to help pick out more furniture. The kitchen is through here,” the space extended back further than Hermione had seen. “The appliances transform from magical to Muggle, I thought that since our neighbors will all be Muggles we should be able to have them over without having to conceal much. This drawer has the take-away menus,” he pulled it and revealed an extensive collection. “Laundry and lab is just through here, again magical,” he flicked his wand, “Muggle.” A washer-dryer much like the set at her parents’ house appeared along with a long brewing table with a small shelf of stores mounted above it. “Do you like it so far? I was torn about having it be a surprise or letting you be involved in the planning and decorating. Anything you don’t like we can change.”

“I love it all,” she said quietly, still close to speechless.

“Upstairs?” he said, sounding a bit giddy.

She took his hand and let him lead her.

“Watch your step in those…shoes,” the word he left out was clearly _ridiculous_.

At the top of the stairs was a long hallway with six doors open. She could see inside two bedrooms, and office, and a lavatory.

“Two guest rooms, I doubt we’ll really need them, but maybe one day you can work up here with a staff. There is one guest lav, and this is our office,” he led her in. There were two work spaces, one of which had a computer on it.”

“Did you…? Is that?”

“Yes, this is your computer. I had a DSL line installed--you should be able to work on the Internet from here. There’s a tea area.” There was a kettle, a box of tea, a charmed carton of cold milk, and her H mug next to his black one.

She was frozen, taking it all in.

“More to see,” he said, leading the way.

At the end of the hall was the master bedroom with a huge four-poster that matched the bookcase he had given her for her birthday.

“Prince heirloom?” She said, stating the obvious. There was an enormous matching wardrobe and bureau as well.

“Yes, but I did very little else to this room. You can decide what paint colour you want; we’ll need a rug. If you think this bedroom set is too much, we can find something more modern. I chose the basic white bedding because we can get a cover or transfigure it however you like.”

“The white looks beautiful against the dark wood,” she touched the soft linen duvet.

“And finally…” he stepped into the adjoining lavatory. It was dominated by a prodigious bathtub that rivaled the ones in the Prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts. This one had a wider ledge, though, for books and drinks. It had a shower-head at one end and gold feet at the bottom.

“This is my favorite of everything,” she said. “I love it all, but this…”

“It’s my favorite, too.” He was behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist.

“I’m sorry, I’m so overwhelmed…I can’t think…express…I…Severus…” She turned around and buried her face in his chest. “Thank you.”


	18. Chapter 18

**October 2005**

**Severus**

 

He was in the middle of being quite exasperated with the fifth years’ attempts to cut pious mellow sufficiently to dissolve when an intimidated looking Filch appeared at the back of the classroom.

“The Headmistress needs to see you, Sir,” Filch said.

Only twice before had Snape been called out of class by Dumbledore, never by McGonagall, and both times it had been for something dire. Snape swept out of the classroom, robe billowing behind him.

“Class dismissed,” he said as he crossed the door.

He could hear Filch saying, “Straight to your common room, Headmistress says, not loitering in the halls!”

Snape heard the liberated students joyously packing their things as he took the stairs two at a time. He hardly noticed being out of breath when he reached her office, but he had a difficult time repeating the required phrase to the gargoyle.

“Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware,” he said, gasping a bit.

The door opened, however, and he climbed the last bit of stairs. Minerva was waiting for him in her office with a stricken look on her face. There were sobs emanating from the floo. Severus turned to see Hermione weeping in the flames.

“I’m going to…” he started to say.

“Go,” said Minerva.

Snape picked up a handful of powder from the little brass container by the side of the floo. He threw it in and stepped in after it. In moments he was bounding into Hermione’s university office.

“My father died,” she said through choked sobs.

She was sitting behind her desk, curled in a ball in her chair, and he picked her up and sat down, holding her like a wounded child.

“How did you…”

“I received a Google alert just now. I read their town paper every day, but I hadn’t had time yet. His obituary is in today’s edition.” She pointed to the computer on her desk. “He died at home after a brief illness. _He is survived by his wife of forty-three years and many friends and patients who adored him_ ,” she choked out the words.

“And his daughter,” he said quietly.

“What did I do, Severus? What did I do? And now I have no chance to make it right!”

He held her close and caressed her head, brushing the hair away from her face.

“You saved them from certain violent death eight years ago. He had eight years and a peaceful death because of you.”

“We don’t know that! They could have been fine!”

“Ted Tonks. Dozens of others.”

This set off a new round of tears. Severus noticed that Ksenia, Hermione’s second in command, was standing in the doorway holding a cup of tea and looking horrified.

“Darling,” he whispered, “let me talk to Ksenia for a moment, and then we’ll go home, all right?”

“Yes,” she wailed and detached herself from him.

“Thank you for coming so soon,” Ksenia said to him, handing him the tea.

He set it on the desk where Hermione could reach it.

“I’m awful with these kinds of scenes,” Ksenia said.

“Likewise,” he said. “I am taking her home to London. Is there anything urgent on the docket for the next few days?”

“We have a motion that’s been finished for weeks to present tomorrow at the W and oral argument Friday, but I can handle it.”

“Good, thanks. Do you have email access when you are not here?”

“I work for her, don’t I? I have a Blackberry.”

“Okay, she will be in touch soon.”

“Tell her stiff upper lip and all of that.”

“I am sure that will be very comforting.”

He turned back to Hermione, who was drinking the tea at least.

“Do you need anything from here? I will go to the flat in a while and pack a bag if there is anything you need there.”

“I just want to go home,” she said.

He helped her up to the floo and threw some powder in.

 

**Hermione**

 

In moments they were at the house. She headed immediately up the stairs. She wanted to curl into a ball on the bed and maybe die. He was right behind her with his arm around her waist, half-way holding her up. He was in his teaching robes, which she hadn’t seen on him in years, and he smelled strongly of brewing potions. She inhaled his robe, and was comforted more than she expected.

“Pious?” she asked him.

“Yes, in a basic solution.”

“Smells good.”

“Do you want something to help you calm down, or do you want to let it all out? I’m fine with either,” he reassured her.

“Give me something. I want to die, Severus.”

“That is not acceptable. You sleep, and I will hold you, and when you wake up, we will talk some more. You may not die.”

She cried again. Her whole body hurt; her core felt like she had been punched, and the pain was spreading to every inch of her. She thought about her mother and a new stab of pain commenced that made her double over.

“Come on,” he said, and he picked her up and walked her to the bed. “I’m going to get a potion, and I will be right back. Call me if you need me.”

He swept quickly from the room. She let the tears fall on the pillow and down her face and onto her chest and everywhere they wanted to go. It seemed as if no time had passed before he was back, helping her drink from the phial, and then she slipped into blackness.

The room was middle of the night dark when she awoke. She was in London, and Severus was in bed with her. She couldn’t remember how she arrived, but she felt it was Wednesday, and she was never in bed in London with Severus on Wednesday.

“Lumos!” she whispered and the room lit. Severus mumbled in his sleep. She dimmed the light and saw the phial on the bedside table. Everything came back. “Nox,” she said quietly and sunk back into the pillow letting the tears come again.

It was the helplessness, she realized. She couldn’t travel to Australia and show up at a stranger’s funeral. She couldn’t comfort her mother. She couldn’t hope to one day reunite with her father. There was a finality to the grief she had suffered for years. There was a significant loss of hope. She imagined a future reunion with her mother. It was tainted. _Why wouldn’t you do this before Dad died, Hermione? It would have meant so much to him._ She could hear her mother’s stricken voice.

She turned and clung to Severus, who shifted in his sleep to pull her into his chest. There was still potion left the in the phial. She drained it and drifted off again.

It was bright. Daylight. Wednesday? Thursday?

“Severus?” she cried out.

“I’m here,” he called, presumably from their office. He brought her tea in her old H mug. It was steaming, and she grasped it and put her face in the center, letting it coat her throbbing eyes.

“Is it Thursday?” His attire, denims and a Manchester United shirt that was his usual weekend yard-work uniform, added to her confusion.

“Yes.”

“The motion is today,” she said dully. She had focused on it solely for the last two weeks, and now she could hardly be bothered to care.

“Ksenia is taking care of it.”

“Of course.”

“Is it house elves, property rights?”

“Rights of magical creatures at the death of their employer,” she had worked to change the language of servitude.

“I’m sure Ksenia can handle that.”

“Yes.”

 

*********

 

Three years ago, Hermione had been struggling to manage the legal foundation she had fought to fund. The university had been on board since the beginning. The mission of the foundation was three-fold: to provide legal education for witches and wizards, to provide advocacy both criminal and civil for people appearing before the Wizengamot, and to challenge unjust laws from the code to the court.

Hermione had been making plans for the law school for years. She had written the curriculum, using the best Muggle counterparts as a model. As soon as she could attract potential law students and oversee their completion of the program, the second part of the mission would begin. The third one; however, was completely stalled. She was repeatedly dismissed from the Wizengamot without the courtesy of the members even reading the painstakingly researched and written briefs.

Severus had implored her to hire help.

“You are not a schemer, Hermione.”

“ _You_ help me then.”

“I don’t have a mind for the law or interest beyond wanting you to succeed.”

“That’s enough! You are brilliant,” she had implored.

Instead, he had provided her with a list of names, all Slytherin, he thought might be a good fit.

She had sent out five letters via owl. Two never responded, one sent her a reply that was an entire page filled with the word _HA!_ , two replied that they were willing to meet her.

Ksenia Wilton was by far the best of the two. Hermione vaguely knew her already; Ksenia had been two years ahead of Hermione at Hogwarts. Hermione only had a few memories of Ksenia, mostly of the Slytherin looking haughty in the Great Hall. Lately, Ksenia had been running a charitable foundation started by some pureblood families who had wanted to distance themselves from the Death Eater debacle.

Ksenia had been unusual looking at school. She had very prominent facial features that made her look considerably older than she was. When she walked into Hermione’s office, dressed impeccably in work robes, Hermione had to stop herself from gasping at how beautiful the witch was now. She had grown into her face and obviously had mastered beauty charms.

Ksenia had asked questions that demonstrated clearly how much work she had done to understand the legal foundation. She was deferential to Hermione and seemed awed at how much Hermione had accomplished on her own. Hermione told her that she would make a decision soon.

Severus flooed in that night to talk about the interviews with her.

“Ksenia is not one of the three is she?”

“Hermione, how many times are we going to have this conversation? One, all of the _three_ , as you put it, are considerably older than you. Two, Miss Wilton is my cousin.”

“Does that matter in your families?”

He gave her a withering look.

“Okay, okay. She seems too good to be true. She even showed compassion for house elves, and she has strong, correct opinions about the marriage laws.”

“Surely, she’s worth a try.”

Hermione had written her in the morning, offering her the job. Ksenia had accepted by the end of the day and started working almost immediately. She had written a memo of concerns and suggestions they delved into her first day.

Hermione had developed a year-long law course that she planned to teach partially teach in person and partially present online. There was a rigorous examination at the end of the year. If the student passed, the university would issue what they were calling a law license. The Wizengamot didn’t recognize it, of course, but Hermione hoped to wear them down eventually. Ksenia threw herself into the course. Hermione had to teach her how to use the Internet, but Ksenia caught on quickly.

One of Ksenia’s concerns was the foundation’s dual purpose of being a law school as well as an organization to protect civil rights.  She argued that the law school be separate and independent.

“That’s a dream, but how? We have no professors, or any money to pay them if we did.  We only have the curriculum I’ve cobbled together. Very few people take this seriously anyway,” Hermione told her.

“The problem with the law school is lack of funding. The university gave you a pittance, and you’ve done remarkably well with it, but if it’s really going to be something, we need a faculty and physical presence somewhere.”

“I know,” Hermione hated to face reality. “I hoped that somewhere down the line we would benefit someone with deep pockets, and they would come through for us. Until then, I suppose I would just try to keep the doors open and have a few people in training.”

“There are plenty of wizards with money. We just need to pitch them.”

“I don’t know anyone with that kind of money.”

“You know Draco Malfoy,” Ksenia said.

“How could the Malfoys possibly still have money?” Hermione asked.

“You are precious,” Ksenia replied in a tone Hermione was quite familiar with from home. “Of course they still have money, and Draco controls it.”

“He would never, _ever_ give it to me,” Hermione said flatly.

“Of course he will. We just need to show him all the ways it will benefit him and convince him he will be making life difficult for the Ministry in the process.”

It was long after hours, and Hermione brought out a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses, pored a little in each, and handed one to her colleague, who clinked Hermione’s glass before she took a long drink.

“There are events the Malfoys attend every year. We’ll get an invite for us, and you should bring Snape for back-up. How is the professor by the way?”

“He’s fine. Exasperated that the school continues to serve the least motivated and most idiotic children in the world, but what else is new? Every year I suggest he move on if it really is so bad, and every year he’s back in the dungeon.”

Ksenia had already finished her drink, and Hermione poured another.

“I must admit, I took this interview in large part because I wanted to talk to the golden cunt that snatched him,” she laughed at her own pun.

“I don’t believe that,” Hermione said flatly.

“Okay, I was intrigued by you and with the challenge, but it was a side benefit. He’s obviously smitten. Why do you put up with his misery, though?”

“He’s far from miserable. I know why people assume that, but it’s not reality. I will have you to London soon so you can see him at his best. I’ll invite the pack of Weasleys, and you two can bond over having to tolerate insufferable Gryffindors.”

“There again—that’s a solution to your other problem at the Wizengamot. You are best mates with Harry fucking Potter. Put him out front on an issue. Take protection of abused spouses. Who’s really going to credibly argue with that? It doesn’t change because no one the Wizengamot has to listen to has ever challenged it. Have Harry Potter make a speech on the outrage of bonding people together with no recourse in case of violence, and they will have no choice but to pay attention.”

Ksenia helped her in every aspect of the venture. When Hermione was to show up in court after Harry’s speech on War Remembrance Day condemning the lack of protection from domestic violence, Ksenia insisted that she transfigure her entire ensemble.

“You look like the love child of Sybill Trelawney and a starving Muggle musician.” Gone was her peasant dress over denims and Doc Martins, black robe thrown haphazardly on top, and wild curls. Hermione now wore a navy pencil skirt with a cream blouse and matching navy robe, sexy navy heels, and hair tamed into a twist on her head.

Two weeks later the Center of Rights for Witches, Wizards, and Others, or as Hermione insisted on calling it CR2WO, (pronounced by Severus and others as CURtawo), had achieved its first victory. She had thrown her arms around Ksenia in front of the Ministry, and the next day in the _Prophet_ was a photo of them under the headline _Activist Beauties_. As irritating as the tone of the coverage was, it was the first time the _Prophet_ had written remotely positively about Hermione’s legal efforts.

Hermione had never been so hopeful as later that year, she and Ksenia apparated to _Gala of the Twelve_ , an annual event honoring the oldest of wizarding families on the British Isles. Ksenia had dressed Hermione in black party robes, sexy shoes, elegant jewelry and straight hair with just a hint of curl at the end and held in place by Eileen Prince Snape’s beautiful silver and emerald combs.

Severus, dressed in his subtle, elegant finest, was on her arm. Ksenia was alone that night. She had been dating George Weasley since Hermione had introduced them at a dinner party at the London house, but this was not George’s scene, and being single allowed Ksenia to flirt with the wealthy men—and women, too, if she thought it might help.

Hermione immediately saw a dozen people she hadn’t liked at all at Hogwarts, including Pansy Parkinson, who took one look at Hermione and then turned to her companion and snickered.

“Dreadful cow, that one,” Ksenia whispered to Hermione. “Not wealthy enough for us to bother with anyway.”

Hermione spotted Draco with his mother on one arm and a beautiful witch she didn’t recognize hanging on the other shoulder. Ksenia took her hand and squeezed it. “Here we go. Snape, are you ready?”

Severus looked as if he were barely tolerating this.

Hermine and Ksenia strode over to Draco with Severus hitting the drink table on the way.

“Granger,” Draco said in that voice she still heard in her head on her worst days.

“Draco,” she said levelly.

“Draco! Mrs. Malfoy, how exquisite you look!” Ksenia went in for the double-cheek kiss with Narcissa and then embraced Draco casually. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” she turned to the younger woman. I’m Ksenia Wilton, and this is my friend and associate Hermione Granger.” She held out a hand to the woman.

“This is Ella Riley,” Draco said, and the young woman, apparently mute, shook Ksenia’s hand and then Hermione’s. Draco made a disgusted noise.

“You are still running the Malfoy foundation, is that correct, Draco?” Ksenia addressed him as if he was the most brilliant, handsome man she had ever seen.

“Yes, Ksenia,” he said tersely and turned to his mother and date. “Why don’t you ladies find a drink and our table. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Mrs. Malfoy nodded timidly and started off in the direction of the bar. Ella put her arm through the older woman’s and followed.

“What do you and Granger want?” He said abruptly to Ksenia.

Just then Snape arrived balancing three glasses of champagne in a triangle.

“Draco, is that any way to talk to ladies?”

Hermione shot Snape an annoyed look that he ignored.

“Professor, I heard rumours about you and Granger, but I must admit I was in denial. What does she have on you?”

“I drugged him years ago to keep him all to myself, Draco,” Hermione laughed. “You look…well.” He looked as slimy as ever, but Ksenia beamed at her effort.

“You do look very fit, Draco. Have you and Narcissa been on holiday recently?” Ksenia asked him.

“No, Ksenia, and could we please get to the point of this little ambush?”

“I see Narcissa. I think I will join her,” Severus said. “Let me know, Darling, when it’s time for my next dose.” He kissed Hermione on the cheek and left the three there to embark on his part of the mission.

“Could we take one of these tables for just a moment? Then we’ll leave you alone and let you get on with your evening, does that sound fair?” Ksenia was physically moving Draco to one of the tall tables by the bar. “Do you want something harder than this, Hermione? I’m going to have a Scotch and soda, you, Draco?”

“I’ll have the same. Light on the soda,” he said.

“Champagne is fine,” Hermione said, steeling herself to be alone with Draco while Ksenia fetched the drinks.

“Were you and Ksenia friends at school?” She asked him lightly, well aware of the answer. Draco had ingratiated himself with the older Slytherins, but Ksenia and her friends paid him little notice outside finding him an annoyance.

“In a manner of speaking. I can’t imagine how she became involved with you,” he said in disgust.

“We run a legal rights organization, CR2WO, have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“And also we’re trying to establish a law school,” Hermione said as Ksenia appeared with the drinks.

“You’re looking at the first two graduates, me as of yesterday.” Ksenia handed him his drink. “Generous Scotch, stingy soda, Draco.”

Hermione was ridiculously proud of her. Ksenia had finished the year long course in nine months and easily passed the licensing exam.

“I hired Ksenia to help, but she’s turned out to be an equal partner,” Hermione couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice.

“Hermione flatters me. She is the brains of the organization, and I’m sure we can agree that makes it a rather brainy venture.”

“I’m well aware of Granger’s opinion of her intelligence. I didn’t realize you were so gullible, Wilton.”

“Draco, have you been satisfied with your experiences with our legal system?” Hermione, tired of wading through rubbish, looked him directly in the eyes.

Lucius Malfoy had been convicted of war crimes very soon after the final battle and sent to Azkaban without an appeal where he died of disease and neglect six months later.

“I think you know that I am not, Granger.” He said coldly.

“You shouldn’t be! Mr. Malfoy was railroaded!”

“What do you know about my father?” he spat at Hermione.

“He didn’t have a chance. I was there in court for some of the trial. He had no opportunity to mount a defense. That’s what we want to do, Draco. We want to create a true advocacy system.”

He stared at her. “What does that even mean?” he sneered.

“People accused of a crime would have someone familiar with the law and the Wizengamot procedures on their side. That person’s only job would be to protect the accused, not to work for the Ministry, not to seek _justice_ , which in the eyes of the Wizengamot all too often is what they feel is right with no regards to the rights of the accused. Imagine if your father had been given legal protection by someone who was looking out for only _his_ interests?

“The whole thing was a travesty,” he said quietly and drank his scotch.

“It was, Draco. They refused to listen to him. He had a compelling story. I could have defended him even then, but now I would be able to defend him using the law code to our advantage, and the other side of our organization is working to reform the code to make it more fair to all.”

He drank quietly, obviously in deep thought. _I’m winning_ , she thought and then made herself calm down.

“I know what you think of me, Draco. I know you probably think we have conflicting interests, but I suspect we have a tremendous amount in common. You think I was on the winning side of that war, and my life has been, well, golden since then. I’m not even sure what winning means, though, aside from the elimination of some psychopaths. I have rage inside me, Draco, about this society. I haven’t had many true triumphs in my life. That man sitting with your mother over there is one. What Ksenia and I are building can be one. Nothing would feel as much a victory for me as taking some of the power those bastards at the Ministry cling to and hold over all of our heads.

He looked at her without contempt for the first time.

“What about the house elves and gay wizards and that nonsense? I have no interest…”

“You should, Draco. If people…or elves, or any living creatures can be denied rights, there is nothing to stop those in power from taking your rights as well,” Ksenia told him, “However, we are really interested in your help regarding the law school. We have everything in place, we just need funding.”

“You obviously care a great deal about your family money being used for noble causes,” Hermione laid it on thick. “This is arguably the most important, most beneficial cause you will ever fund.”

“How much are you talking about?”

“I read the foundation’s annual report from last year; we could be up and running with half of the grant you gave the Restoration Society,” Ksenia told him.

“That’s real money,” he said, finishing his drink.

“Would you care for another?” Ksenia asked him.

“I’m fine. What do I get from this; not some high-handed justice for all shite, but in real terms, what would I get?”

“Naming rights,” Hermione offered.

“Partial naming rights,” Ksenia corrected. “It’s Hermione’s mission. Her name will be on it as well.”

“Before mine?”

“I think after,” Hermione felt her pulse race with victory in her grasp.

And that was how the Malfoy Granger Law School gasped into life.

 

*********

 

Severus climbed back into bed with her with his own tea.

“I have some toast downstairs. I know you don’t feel like eating at the moment, but you need to.”

“I will. Ooooooooh, Severus. What should I do?” She put her tea on the bedside table and curled into a ball under the bedclothes.

“I’ve had some thoughts. We can go to Australia if you think it would be comforting to see your mum.”

“I’ve thought of that; I suspect it would make me feel worse, and it wouldn’t help her at all.”

“I’ve sent a floral arrangement to the undertakers there for the funeral. I signed it with my own name, and then undersigned it as a former patient, very fond of his dentist.”

“Oh, Severus, thank you.”

“I thought about signing it with a passage from the _Iliad_ , but I was afraid your mum might think it was from a lover.”

She laughed just a bit.

“I’ve researched some foundations that benefit dental care for the poor and indigent here and in Australia, and there is also a _Friends of the NHS_ fund. I thought we could donate a bit to each one.”

She emerged from the bedclothes and pressed herself against her dear man.

“It’s the finality of it all, I know that’s obvious with death, but I’d already mostly lost them—there was this tiny glimmer of hope, though,” she said.

“I know, Darling.”

“I had the most wonderful parents. I have no right to be anything but grateful.”

“Of course you have the right to grieve. And you will always grieve for them. I had far from ideal parents, and I am still sad about their deaths.”

He stayed in bed with her for hours. She cried, slept, told her favorite dad stories that he’d already heard. She let him get her some toast and marmalade; they drank pots of tea. In the early afternoon, he suggested a bath, and he washed her hair and rubbed her back. In the early evening she finally started thinking about work. She went into the office in her pajamas and had her fifteenth cup of tea of the day. Crookshanks was sleeping under her desk.

“How did Crooks get here?” Her last memory of him was Wednesday morning at the flat.

“I fetched him yesterday. The old bastard was not thrilled to take the journey with me,” Severus called from the bedroom.

She crouched on the floor with her cat and cuddled him. He looked thoroughly unimpressed. It was hard for him to leap onto the bed anymore, so she had to haul him up. He lived by her computer mostly both here and at the flat. She suspected he liked the hum.

“Hey, sweet boy. I love you,” she whispered in his orange ears and he purred back.

There was no logical reason that Hermione maintained the flat near the university except she didn’t enjoy being at the London house alone. She stayed there sometimes when she worked out of the Ministry all day, but it was scary, and empty, and different when Severus wasn’t there. She had long since moved out of the two-bedroom she had shared with Neville in the wizard section, to a tiny one room flat above a Muggle café between the different sectors. She had a single bed and high-speed Internet, which was all she really needed there.

She rose to sit in her chair and check email, of which she had approximately four thousand. She ignored all but the one from Ksenia.

 

To: HJGranger@TLUniversity.edu

From: KAWilton@TLUniversity.edu

Re: Today’s Motion

Without a hitch, Dear. I haven’t been to court in so long, I was afraid I would fall on my face, but it came right back. I saw at least ten of our graduates in the hall about to argue for their clients, so proud!

The W was stone-faced, of course, but the arguments are irrefutable. I’m ready for orals tomorrow, so don’t worry about it for a moment, but if you’d like the diversion, I would love to have you by my side.

Chin up, Hermione.

K

 

To: KAWilton@TLUniversisty.edu 

From: HJGranger@TLUniversity.edu

re: re: Today’ Motion

I have no doubt you were brilliant.

Seeing the babies in their robes in court is one of my favorite pleasures.

I’m currently undecided about appearing tomorrow. I’m afraid Friolio will be his usual arsehole self, and I’ll start crying. I’ll still win the argument, tho. :)

Thank you for everything; you are the loveliest and the best.

H

 

She scanned through the rest of her inbox and found another email that caught her eye.

 

To: HJGranger@TLUniversity.edu

From: DLMalfoy@btinternet.com

Re: Condolences

Dear Miss Granger,

I am sorry to hear of the death of your father.

I am having a dinner early next month; I will let you and Professor Snape know the details as we get closer to the date.

Sincerely,

D. Malfoy

 

Hermione laughed out loud, which brought Severus into the office.

“Draco sent the loveliest, most perfunctory condolence email imaginable. It reminds me I need to owl Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, Shell Cottage, Ron and Maisy, Neville and Hannah, Luna. If the larger wizarding world ever discovers group email, they will never go back.”

“You work on that, and I’ll go pick up some Thai. George already knows, I’m sure. Ksenia probably told him not to share until you were up to it, or we would have been inundated with owls.”

“Yeah, probably. Green curry,” she reminded him.

“Of course,” he said. As if he didn’t know her order.

“Fresh rolls,” it didn’t hurt to make sure.

“Yes, Darling.”

She wrote her letters, trying to make them not a complete copy of each other. (Again, group email—so brilliant.) In forty-five minutes they were ready to send. They had a small owlery in the garden which no doubt confounded the neighbors.

“So, we like birds,” Severus reassured her after one too many comments from the people next door. Hermione and Severus kept the large pen charmed so the noise wasn’t too great.

She sent Godric to the Burrow, Shell, and Hogwarts, and Salazar, who was a bit goofy, stayed in town with the rest.

Severus arrived home with the food, and they settled in front of the television on the sofa with chopsticks and large glasses of wine. He even let her watch _X Factor_ without complaint and with minimal snark.

Owls started arriving within an hour. By nine, the sitting room was filled with Weasleys and Potters and baked goods. Severus put on the kettle and poured more wine. Ron and Harry sat with her on the sofa and let her cry on their shoulders in turn. At that point it was almost more for their sake than for hers. They had to do something for her. She understood implicitly.

The next day, she arrived at the Ministry in her best charcoal robes and black heels that Ksenia called her arse-kicking shoes. Her partner was waiting for her outside the bank of lifts. The beautiful black-haired witch grabbed Hermione’s forearm as a sign of mutual strength, and at the bell, they stepped into the lift up to the Wizengamot together.


	19. Chapter 19

**August 2016**

**Severus**

 

The conversation he called in his head _should we have a baby, then?_ intensified considerably the night of Boxing Day 2013. The Weasley Potter bunch were all at the house. A pattern had been established that the chief holidays were celebrated at the Burrow, and the minor ones, all quidditch championships, and occasional football were celebrated at the Granger Snape abode in North London. When Severus inquired why this was, as Grimmauld Place was larger and more centrally located, Ron cleared it up.

“Your house is the nicest, and you have a television and whiffy.”

 _It is amazing what kind of house one can afford when one doesn’t marry and procreate before the age of twenty_ , Snape thought, but he never seriously objected to the horde although they were sometimes exhausting. Lately the oldest of the children, Teddy, Hugo, and Victoire would angle to spend the night after these gatherings, and Snape and Hermione would find themselves hosting a sleepover. He would grumble but also would make sure he woke up early enough to procure treats from the bakery for breakfast. The three teenagers always camped out in front of the telly, and all of those guest rooms upstairs continued to go mostly unused.

On this particular Boxing Day, they had hired Hannah to make the food as usual. The weather was unseasonably warm, and the children were playing with their new things in the garden with strict warnings about flying. The summer before Hermione and Severus had to obliviate the memories of an entire afternoon of their neighbors because the young Potter Weasleys had started a quidditch match in the community garden.

Severus was settled on the sofa with a book Hermione had given him, a volume of ancient potions of Africa that he had heard about but never seen. He was quite content to be forgotten in the crowd, as an entire afternoon of reading was his ideal Boxing Day.

Lily Luna Potter, age four, who looked nothing like either of her namesakes but exactly like her mother, sidled up to him and thrust a book about fairies onto his lap.

“Read, Uncle Snape,” she demanded.

Since their arrival at the house that day, Lily, overtired from all of the week’s festivities, had either been whinging or being chastised for too much whinging, and her mother looked completely vexed with the little girl.

The youngest children were usually hesitant to outright intimidated around Snape, so her edict was somewhat charming. He gave her a mildly withering look and opened the book—all about different kinds of fairies who were, of course, special in their own way. By page fourteen she had melted into his side, and by twenty she was asleep. She stayed there for hours, her mother hovering with concern several times that they were imposing on Snape by leaving Lily there, but he insisted. The child obviously needed rest, and living with her two hellion brothers, it was difficult.

He brushed the red hair from her face and gently patted the little back as she breathed into his side. _Your granddaughter, Lily. If you could see her…maybe you can._ Lily’s granddaughter; Henry’s great-granddaughter. He felt a more profound sense of responsibility to the little girl than he’d ever considered, but instead of feeling as if it were a burden, it felt like such a privilege. _She is fine. Lily, she is wonderful._ Finally, he drifted to sleep as well, the warm little hand pressed into his rib cage.

Hermione had been talking periodically for years about perhaps having a baby. These longings manifested themselves usually after one of this lot was born and was just so adorable with the tiny fingers and the tiny nose and the red hair, but as soon as the child had reached his or her toddler days, Hermione was hesitant again. Her wretched cat had finally died three years before, and Hermione had cried plaintively for hours and then had broached the baby subject again.

“Perhaps a kitten is really what you want?” he had asked her.

“How dare you presume to know what I really want!”

“Of course not, Darling, just thinking that a baby would be quite an escalation of responsibility from the old bastard.”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Severus.”

“I would never suggest…”

“You would always suggest it!” She had stomped from their office and flung herself on the bed. He had given her a few minutes and then entered cautiously.

“If you really want to talk about having a baby…”

“Of course I don’t, leave me alone!”

She forgave him quickly. He had buried Crooks in the back garden, and Hermione planted a small rosebush there as a tribute, and the subject of babies was indefinitely tabled.

She worked appalling hours, and the Center was mostly still a two-woman show. The law school was fully independent, but she lectured there several times a week. George and Ksenia had married, and she’d had a baby two years before. Ksenia had been a model of how to manage a career and a family, and she had given Hermione hope that she could as well. It was due in no small part to George and his decision to be less hands-on at the store. Freddie Wilton-Weasley seemed to be an easily managed child compared to his cousins, and Hermione hoped that she might be so lucky as well.

Snape had been mostly ambivalent to negative about the whole topic until the fateful Boxing Day. He wasn’t joyous about his life at Hogwarts and how much it kept him away, but it was the only career he knew; he had no professional identity beyond brewing and teaching brewing in that dungeon. He knew, though, if they had a child, he would not be happy to be away for most of the week ten months a year.

The school was running better than ever under McGonagall’s leadership. The house harmony project had been an unqualified success, and while people still exhibited great pride in their houses, inner-house cooperation and friendship had never been as strong. The current classes were almost as large as their pre-war counterparts.

Mr. Zabini had worked a miracle at Slytherin; the house had grown, and its reputation had never been better. There was still a stigma, and there might always be, but prominent citizens, Ksenia and Draco included, had raised the status of the house considerably. Professor Emerson had run the dungeon for the fourth and fifth years since the beginning of her tenure. In the last fourteen years, Severus had primarily been a classroom teacher and tried to stay out of the Hogwarts politics as much as he could. It was nearly impossible to terrify the students into submission any more when at least three of them in every class spent every holiday with him.

Being Hermione Granger’s partner had its own set of commitments, both personally and professionally, and while he tried to maintain his natural façade of being put out, he loved his life in London with her on the weekends and during the summer breaks.

He was happy to keep on the course; to engage Hermione in her periodic discussions about babies, but to continue in their lives unchanged—until that child decided to camp out at his side on Boxing Day.

He knew immediately and with no reservations that he wanted one of his own. He would finish his years at Hogwarts and find something to do in London, maybe even part time, so Hermione could continue to attempt to save the world. He wanted a family that was more than two workaholics who adored each other, but who only slept three nights a week most of the year under the same roof.

She was delighted in this new development, but not completely convinced.

“I fear you’ll change your mind in a week.”

“I won’t.”

“We could have a squib, Severus, between my parents and your father, the baby could likely be a squib.”

“So primary school and football and A-levels?”

“And no boarding school,” she added.

“I hope it’s a squib,” he said.

That issue was settled.

Curtowo was working on an ambitious project, legalizing gay marriage. They had filed a lawsuit on behalf of twelve couples. Hermione and Ksenia were putting in fifteen hour days to prepare. Arguments were set for late August 2014, so she respectfully asked for the discussion to be tabled until the afternoon they had concluded their case.

In spite of the passion that Hermione and Ksenia devoted to Curtowo, they had enjoyed precious few successes so far. Resistant to change didn’t even begin to describe the Wizengamot, and the whole Ministry, really. Severus wondered if the constant defeat would be too much for her; if she would focus on the law school and play the long game of change. There was no sign of retreat as of yet.

Predictably, the Wizengamot quickly declined to change the statute that prohibited gay marriage. Severus feared this would put an end to their discussions as well— _there’s no way I’m bringing a child into our fucked up society_ , but she surprised him by thanking him for his patience and telling him she was joyous at the thought of having their child. Hermione turned thirty-five in September and stopped taking the contraceptive potion.

In March after six months of trying with no results, they consulted a fertility specialist at St. Mungo’s and both started taking supplements.

In September after a year, they renewed their NHS cards, charmed up some medical records, hid their scars, and saw a Muggle specialist. She found nothing wrong with either of them except timing. She put them on a strict schedule, which seemed absurd, but more pleasant than other items on the time-table.

Still nothing. By December 2015, Severus was considering talking with Hermione during the Christmas hols about backing off; not preventing, but not actively trying. It was too emotional every month to have their hopes up and then to be disappointed.

The day before exams and Christmas break, he was reviewing polyjuice with the sixth years for their test when he heard Hugo Weasley say, “Aunt Hermione?”

Severus looked to the back of the classroom, and there she was beaming, glowing, with a smile as big as he’d ever seen on her face. He didn’t have to ask.

“I need to speak with Ms. Granger for a moment. I will quiz you on the bitcorn procedure as soon as I am finished.”

Hermione was sweeping down the steps by the desks and he caught her hand and led her into the back room, barely out of sight of the students before he took her into his arms and kissed her as if she were returning home from war.

“When, Darling?”

“Just this morning. I was two days late, but made myself wait until today.”

“So that puts us…”

“Mid-August.”

“I’ll put in my notice today,” he told her, still holding her.

“Should you wait until we know if it’s…”

“It will be, Hermione. But you’re probably right. Three months will be…end of February. I’ll tell Minerva it’s likely my last year but will confirm in February.”

“I’m so excited, Severus; I’m so thrilled!”

“I am too, Darling, so happy!”

 She stayed with him the rest of the day, helping the students prepare and surprising the rest of her honorary nieces and nephews. Victoire didn’t want to leave her side, and when they ate lunch in the Great Hall, Minerva let them all sit at a special table. The third incarnation of James Potter, brilliantly named James Potter, was in his second year. He was far less obnoxious than the first two versions had been as children, though Severus admitted to himself that this was perhaps due to the child growing up before his eyes, and to the fact that he had more than a little true affection for the boy. _There you go, Potter, your grandson has won me over_. Severus tried to keep the pretense of a sneer among all of these Gryffindors, but it was impossible. He was so thrilled with the news, he kept reaching for Hermione’s hand and making a bloody fool of himself in front of the students.

She started feeling awful the very next day, miserable, but joyful as well, as it confirmed her condition.

They announced their news at the Burrow on Christmas morning and he was afraid they were going to be suffocated during the ensuing melee of hugs, kisses, and tears. Molly Weasley hugged him to her for the first time ever, and he patted her back indulgently.

He was wearing the sixteenth version of his Weasley Christmas jumper, staid knitted black wool. One year, early in Snape’s relationship with Hermione, Molly had knitted into the design a coiled, green snake, whose head stretched to the left shoulder of the garment, red probing tongue to be just under his ear. Molly was beaming when he unwrapped it, proud of her artistry, and then baffled when all of the faces, save Snape’s and George’s, reflected horror.

Snape managed a dignified _thank you_ , but George rolled on the floor in laughter. Molly’s face transitioned from confusion, to annoyance at her cackling son, to mortified understanding.

“Oh, Severus, I…” she gasped.

“Molly, it’s lovely, thank you.”

“Put it on, Snape, I…” George collapsed again in laughter.

But Molly had snatched it from Snape’s hands and had run from the room.

Snape and Hermione had followed her to try to talk her down. Snape had felt slightly uneasy around George throughout the years due to the Unfortunate Ear Incident, but the Great Snake Jumper Christmas eased the tension.

Over the years, these people had become the only extended family Snape had ever been a part of. Sometimes…often, really, he felt he would be perfectly fine without the noise, chaos, and interference they brought with them, but on his best days and on some of his worst, he realized what an integral part of his life they had become. Arthur, especially, had become a close friend.

“It’s the perfect age, Severus,” Arthur told him on that joyful Christmas of their announcement. “Fifty-five?”

“Fifty-six in two weeks. It’s bloody old.”

“It’s the perfect age,” Arthur reiterated. “You still are young enough to play and old enough not to take everything so seriously. You will love it, Severus, just wait.”

“It may be a squib given our genetics.”

“It would be a most loved squib by all of us, Severus, you must know that.”

“I know, it’s really the least of my worries.”

“It may have your nose,” Arthur said with a barely contained laugh.

“That would be truly unfortunate.”

Hermione was in bed for most of the holiday, barely keeping tea down. When she went back to work in January she made the _Prophet_ by vomiting in the Wizengamot during an appeal of the rejected gay marriage bill. Skeeter suggested she had been poisoned by members of her staff disillusioned by her leadership. Hermione laughed it off, but regretted the picture of her depositing her tea and toast onto the lap of an ancient wizard.

She took Snape out for his birthday to a Muggle restaurant they both loved, and she tried to enjoy herself through the early pregnancy misery. When dessert arrived, ordered more for her than him, she slid an envelope to him. It included an itinerary for a July vacation to Italy, Croatia, and Greece.

“A last hurrah before we have to be responsible, at least for a few years.”

He stood and hunched over the table and kissed her mouth gently.

“Thank you, Darling, I can’t wait. I wish we could go now.”

“I’m glad we’re not. I want to feel better, even if I will be as big as a house.”

“You will be marvelous. I can’t wait to see you as big as a house.”

She threw him a humourously exasperated look.

He pulled a small box out of his pocket and slid it over to her.

“Why do I get a present for your birthday?” She said, though obviously delighted.

“I fell in love with you on my birthday.”

“That’s a good reason,” she smiled, opened the box and gasped.

He’d had the jeweler design the ring with a diamond set in platinum. It had a small ruby on one side and a matching emerald on the other.

“Hermione,”

“I can’t,” tears were already spilling out of her eyes.

“Just listen, Darling. I’m sorry to be so tediously traditional, but I _do_ want us to be married before the baby is born. I would _never_ ask for us to be bound. Let’s get a license and go to the registry office. The British marriage laws are much more acceptable, yes?”

“A Muggle marriage?”

“Why not?” He smiled at her. “It would fit with the rest of it.”

“We could put a notice in the _Guardian_. Won’t the neighbors be happy.” She broke into a wide grin.

“But just us, not a wedding?”

“Not a wedding,” she agreed. “Just us. Maybe a party when I’m feeling better?”

“I was thinking early March. Married at the registry office, lunch and a room, and then maybe a party the next weekend.”

“Perfect, perfect, perfect! Ask me, Severus.”

“Should I get on one knee?”

“Oh, heavens no.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Darling?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes, Darling.”

 

*********

 

He was at school the night before he was to meet her for their Friday appointment. He’d had a formal Muggle suit made, charcoal wool, appropriate for a day function. His silk tie was striped charcoal and black. His hair, now mostly grey, was short on his head with a long lock covering his forehead. He wore glasses with large black frames that he should have acquired years ago for the way they minimized the old nose. His shoes were polished to a high shine. Poppy and Pomona found him before he apparated to London.

“Severus, congratulations, I’m so happy for you.” Poppy embraced him.

Pomona pinned a small, cream coloured calla lily to his lapel and handed a nosegay of the flowers for Hermione.

“Remember every detail, Severus, we want a full report Monday.”

“Thank you. You are coming to the party next week?”

“Of course, Dear.”

“Yes, Severus, now go or you will miss the bride.” They bundled up and walked with him to the apparition point. Both hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, which he allowed in the spirit of the day. He left with a pop and arrived in the alley outside the government office.

She was there already, dressed in a light grey silk coat over a matching dress. She had grey pumps with ivory bows at the toes. Her hair was long, tamed but curly, held in place with his mother’s combs. Her cheeks were pink with the cold and excitement. She looked stunning.

“Darling, you are beautiful,” he said and handed her the small bouquet.

“Thank you, Darling, you are dashing.”

He offered his arm, and they walked up the steps to the court house.

The person working the registry office was a little old man who was in no hurry examining their documents.

Hermione’s face revealed she was not in the mood to deal with ancient jurists giving her a hard time.

“Is everything all right?” he asked the old man.

“Yes, yes. How did you two meet?”

“We worked together,” Hermione said tersely.

“Ah, yes? Where do you work?”

“We met teaching science years ago. I’m a lawyer now, and he’s a chemistry professor,” Hermione was trying to be so patient, and Severus patted the hand that was looped through his arm. She was shaking slightly.

“So, a long term relationship? You’ve owned a…residence together for…” he flipped some papers around.

“Yes,” Severus said. “Sixteen years we’ve had the house.”

“Bit of an age difference,” he looked over his spectacles at Snape. “I reckon that doesn’t bother you…” he said and winked at Snape.

Severus realized that Hermione was about fifteen seconds away from storming out of the office when the little man finally cleared his throat.

“Well then, are you ready?”

Finally.

They promised to love and cherish, forsaking all others, but not to obey. They slipped platinum bands on each other’s fingers: hers was inscribed HJG::STS, his STS::HJG. The old man pronounced them man and wife, and Hermione murmured _husband and wife_ before they brushed lips.

“Husband and wife,” he whispered back and pressed his forehead into hers.

They raced down the steps, swinging hands, out of the doors and into the bracing cold. He stopped her and kissed her properly outside of the building. She pulled out her mobile and asked a passing woman to take a photo of them.

They posed and then kissed, and the woman took several shots. Hermione retrieved the phone and picked the one to frame for the mantle. Hermione was facing the camera looking blissful. He was in profile, an angle he typically avoided at all costs, but with the glasses, it wasn’t so appalling. He was looking at her, clearly adoring her.

He hailed a cab for the ride to the Muggle hotel. They were having lunch in the dining room before they retired upstairs. They hadn’t had sex since she found out she was pregnant. She had just started feeling better about a week ago, but she was still tired. Also, the months and months of procreative sex had taken their toll, as much as Severus and Hermione had tried to avoid it. It had become a chore that he feared toward the end might be futile. He had no idea how that afternoon would go, and he was content to watch telly or read in bed with her if that’s what she preferred. Still, the way she was kissing him in the back of the cab reminded him of their first few years together; apart for weeks with the anticipation of a frenetic foreplay free reunion that he lived for.

He had splurged on the hotel, a true once in a lifetime event, after all, and the lunch was exquisite. Hermione was finally eating again and rolled her eyes in pleasure several times during the meal, especially the chocolate crème brulee he had pre-ordered for her. The staff discretely delivered a bottle of complimentary champagne from which she sadly abstained.

After she had scraped the ramekin clean, he signed the bill, and they walked hand in hand to the lifts. She wrapped her arms around him for the ride and settled her head below his shoulder where it had fit all these years.

Their room was larger and more luxurious than they had ever hired. One wall was windows with sheer curtains letting in all of the early afternoon light. Her hair was displaying that sunlight trick again, where he could count a dozen colours. She took off her coat, fully revealing her grey silk dress, cut close to her body and displaying a small mound at her belly. She wordlessly turned and lifted her hair so he would help her with the zip. He pushed it all the way down, and she let the dress fall from her shoulders to the floor.

She was wearing a matching set of cream and grey silk: cream lace brassiere with grey ribbon embellishments. Her breasts were considerably fuller since the beginning of her pregnancy. He had noticed this in the bath, but hadn’t a chance to rightly appreciate it until now. She had tiny cream lace knickers below the suspender belt that sat just under the swelling belly. She had lost half a stone or so because of the illness of early pregnancy, so her belly was clearly defined and unmistakable.

“Oh, Darling,” he said quietly, and she pressed herself against him and snogged him more thoroughly than she had in a year. He responded immediately, putting his hands under her arse and lifting her so that she wrapped her legs around his hips. He held her tightly against himself with his arms crossed on her back holding her securely. He turned and lay her gently on the bed. He removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair and then placed his wand and glasses on the bedside table. He turned back to her.

Her scar that was so shockingly angry the first time he saw it had faded to almost nothing. A raised pale pink line was all that was left. Her side was still marred where she had endured Bellatrix’s series of curses, but Severus had seen the crumpled skin so many times since then, it was just another part of her. He stroked it sometimes when he was trying to fall asleep; it felt like soft leather and was inexplicably comforting to touch. The scars on his torso and arm were almost gone as well. You could only see the dark mark if you knew what to look for. The others were just dull lines on his chest and back.

His neck was still a mess, similar in looks to her side, but much rougher in texture, and the fang marks were still visible behind his right ear. Since Anabel had cut his hair so short in the back he had caught younger students staring at it. None was ever impertinent to ask outright. It was a reminder how far removed they were from the war; the little ones only had vague ideas.

“Darling?” Her voice brought him back where she lay on the bed waiting for him. He started with her neck and kissed down from her ear to her clavicle. She stayed silent, her hands massaging his head. He removed the lace bra and groaned appreciatively at the sight of her breasts, which made Hermione laugh.

“You are allowed to be excited about the large rack, Severus. I can’t get over them, either.”

He stopped her from talking by taking one in his mouth and one in his hand and truly engulfing himself in them. He ran his tongue in their cleft, which made her moan under him and arch her back. Encouraged by the response, he traveled lower, kissing her belly gently and looking up at his wife. She found his hand and laced her fingers through his. He kissed her again before he continued, unhooking the belt and unclasping the grey silk stockings, taking each one down in turn, leaving her with just the little knickers.

He planted himself at the end of the bed with his chin resting just under her swollen belly. He looked at her and smiled, overwhelmed for a moment. _For Merlin’s sake, don’t cry, Snape._ He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and maintained control. She was looking down at him with both love and desire, and he continued, peeling the lace knickers off down her legs to her toes, painted rose. He took a foot in his hand and kissed her big toe.

“Lovely,” he said quietly before he moved back up and took her with his mouth, letting his tongue roam and teasing her a little by avoiding at first the spots she really loved. He slipped in one finger and then two, and she moaned deeply in response. He swirled his tongue on and around her clitoris. This activity had been off the menu since they had seen the Muggle doctor, and he was savouring his return. He felt her getting close to orgasm, and she started pulling him up. For whatever psychological or physical reason, it was difficult for her to come twice if he finished her with his mouth first. It made him smile to think about them returning to their old patterns, temporarily set aside for the rules they were supposed to follow.

It wasn’t lost on him that the only lasting and successful relationship in his life was the one after he had lost the ability to enter other people’s minds, but having been her lover for almost twenty years, he knew every inch of her body and could gauge the smallest reactions. He thought about the vows from earlier and wondered if an appropriate clause should be added; _I promise to fuck you the way you like best_. 

She was fumbling with his tie and buttons, and he kissed her, letting her taste herself, which she always seemed to enjoy. He finished taking off his shirt, removed his shoes and socks, pausing briefly to run a hand up and down her leg, and then unbuttoned his trousers so just the black silk boxers bought specifically for the occasion remained. She reached right in and grabbed his cock, which was straining to escape anyway.

“Greedy,” he teased her.

“Terribly,” she agreed and shucked the boxers down.

She continued her charge by pushing him down on his back and then climbing over him and lowering herself slowly onto his cock. He gasped as he filled her for the first time in months.

“Tell me how much you like my cunt,” she instructed.

“My favorite little home, your cunt, Ms. Granger.” At some point she had lost her squeamishness regarding that word.

“Ms. Granger-Snape,” she sat up tall with her breasts hovering over him and her hair falling out of the combs.

“Ms. Granger-Snape, you have the most glorious cunt in all of Britain and the commonwealth.”

“The whole commonwealth? Take that, Canada. Please don’t make a beaver joke.”

“I would never.”

She started riding him slowly, and he clutched her hips to maintain a bit of control. This had the potential to be very fast if he wasn’t careful. His whole body was screaming to let her slam up and down on him a couple times and come in roughly fifteen seconds. He had to pace carefully. He pulled her close and was able to slow her down by taking one breast and then the other into his mouth. When she sat up again and began riding him in earnest, he licked his fingers and slipped them below her belly to find their home. This was sensory overload. That cunt he missed so much, the big tits he wasn’t used to, the reality that she actually felt well enough to do this, that adorable belly, such a joyous sight. _Think of Filch, think of Filch, think of Filch._

He was hitting the spot that usually did it for her, and she bent over and started sucking on his earlobe—clearly a good sign. Finally, she tripped over the edge and drug him with her. _Thank Merlinnnnnnnnnn, Hermione, you goddess, uhhhhhhhhhhhh._

She collapsed on top of him and then rolled on her side with one leg still over him.

“Darling, I have missed you; I have missed this,” she said breathlessly.

“Remember that when I’m home every night next year.”

“I am counting the days, Severus.”

He was basking in having the whole day with nothing to do except lie in bed with his arms around her.

 “Are you helping Minerva find someone for Potions?” She asked him, tracing her fingers around his taught nipples, still tingling from his orgasm.

“Yes, we have two good candidates. One is a Hufflepuff, and Pomona is cheering him on, of course. Longbottom can’t be in charge of the basement.”

“What if the baby is Hufflepuff?” she asked him.

“Less likely than being a squib, I would guess.”

“Yes,” she said with relief.

He scrambled out of the bed and dug in his coat pocket and brought back a velvet box. He kissed her and handed it over.

“Too much, Darling,” she said, delighted as she opened the box. “Oh, Severus!”

“You may _not_ wear them all at once.” There were three pairs of stud earrings:  rubies, emeralds, and diamonds.

“The diamonds are for the baby, right? I’m catching on. I love them!” She kissed him and draped herself on top of him again. “I am piercing my ears a third time so I can wear all three,” she reached for her wand.

“No, please, not here. At least wait until your next pre-natal at St. Mungo’s. Anabel can do it.”

“Saint Anabel.”

“Yes.”

 

*********

 

Failing to devise a plan in which they could invite both their neighbors and friends from the wizarding world to their wedding party, they ended up having two.

They had a garden barbecue Friday evening for the neighbors; they cast warming charms and put some space heaters around hoping to explain their unseasonably warm yard. Severus grilled sausages and chicken, and Hannah had prepared the rest. Severus and Hermione had been a curiosity in the neighborhood since they had moved in: Hermione was vaguely explained as a public advocacy barrister; Severus as a chemistry teacher at a boarding school in Scotland. They tried to change the subject when pressed for details.

Their house looked like others in the neighborhood from the outside, but was so much bigger when one entered. One of them would take out several rooms when they had Muggle company, but the layout still raised questions. They generally tried to steer conversation away from themselves and on to others, with the result that they knew their neighbors quite a bit better than the reciprocal, and that they were well liked, probably for the same reason.

They explicitly told people attending both parties not to bring gifts, but that was ignored in most cases. Severus wondered what they would do with all of the small Muggle appliances and garden equipment they now owned. The witches and wizards had mostly given money, as was the custom, and faced with Hogwarts retirement and a baby, he appreciated every galleon.

The magic folk party was Saturday night. They transfigured the sitting room into a small ballroom. Severus acted as DJ for most of the night, on a mission to demonstrate what good music really is. The little ones seemed to enjoy it most; Lily, Freddie, and Giles, Bill and Fleur’s youngest, danced and talked to him most of the night.

Hermione was wearing a white lace dress to her knees that she made much less bridal by pairing it with opaque black tights and granny boots. Her belly had grown a bit even in the week and filled out the dress in front.  Her hair was piled on her head with curls strategically escaping. She had all three sets of earrings; of course, the diamonds in newly pierced holes in the cartilage of her upper ears. It made him shudder to see it, and Ksenia disapproved as well.

She worked the room and then settled in a corner with Potter. Ron and Ksenia popped in and out of the little group, but as usually happened with these gatherings, Hermione and Potter seemed to have months of discussion pouring out. Severus didn’t feel jealous of the relationship, exactly, but he did feel fortunate that Hermione had fallen for Weasley as a teenager and not Potter, whom he suspected she really could have loved. Severus was always grateful when Ginny had finally drunk enough champagne to drape herself on her husband.

Fleur and Ksenia were two of his favorite women in the group, and he tended to flirt a bit himself, with them and with quiet, sweet Hannah, if he could get her to look up from the cooker. His motives were mostly to get the side-eye from Hermione, but he enjoyed the attention from the beautiful women as well, even if one was his third cousin.

When the dancing began in earnest, he chose a schmaltzy thirty-year-old pop jazz tune he’d always loved in spite of its excess; he wasn’t even embarrassed about it. He pulled Hermione away from Potter and danced with his wife. She laughed at him when the dated soulful sax rang out, but pulled him closer and kissed him proudly. The crowd raised their glasses to Hermione and Severus at the end, and Potter stepped forward with his glass to toast, and Ginny shoved champagne flutes in their hands.

“We’ve thought of you two as married for years, and we knew she had a spark for you, Professor, since that incident at the quidditch all those years ago—as bold romantic gestures go, that one wins the prize. Who could have known then, though, how you would be the perfect partner for our Hermione—and you can settle down now, Snape, because you’ve made it very difficult for us to measure up with our own wives. To Severus and Hermione, the least likely and most obvious pair, please don’t _ever_ sell this house!”

“To Severus and Hermione!”

“Keep the house!”

“Invite us over more often!”

“To Ms. Abbott-Longbottom for keeping us fed while you’re here,” Severus replied, raising his glass to Hannah, who blushed endearingly.

“Thank you all for being here and celebrating with us,” Hermione started and looked at him in mini-panic suddenly at a loss for words. “We love you all!” She squeezed in to her place under his arm and they looked into the crowd.

The old Hogwarts guard had sneaked away for the gathering, as well as at least one of the new: Professor Longbottom was by his wife’s side. Hannah was due with their third child in about a month. The Potter Weasley gang dominated as always, but Luna was there and about a dozen of Hermione’s colleagues from the Center, and a few clients as well. The couples from the original gay marriage law suit were still with her as she and Ksenia fought through the appellate process, refusing to give up. Draco was there looking dour, with his mother and latest girlfriend on either side as usual. Severus caught Narcissa’s eyes and smiled at her. She raised her glass at him with a tiny smile.  

“Please eat and drink your fill and enjoy some real music for once,” Severus returned to his DJ set up and away from the sentiment that was threatening to get to him again. What was becoming of him?

 

*********

 

It was difficult to return to school for his last three months; he felt thoroughly finished with the work, but leaving this place that had been so much of his life for forty-five years was daunting. He put his head down and completed the year as he always did. In mid-May the Headmistress unexpectedly invited him to her office after dinner.

“Severus, we have to discuss your portrait before you leave.”

“I can’t imagine that anyone would find it helpful to remember that year.”

“Of course we do; we remember your tenure in its proper context, and when you are gone, future Headmistresses and Masters will rely on your wisdom, Severus. This is not negotiable,” she said kindly but firmly “You must decide on your portrait, though. The artist can look at an image from that era, or you can sit now.”

The thought of having a bit of his soul preserved in the Head’s office was more than a bit horrifying. If it weren’t for one wrinkle, he would have bowed his neck and refused outright. There was that little matter, though, of the age difference. Of course he had no idea what the fates had in store for either him or his wife, but it stood to reason that she would outlive him, and that he would miss a significant portion of his child’s life. He didn’t know what level of consciousness he would retain in portrait form, but if it would allow him the privilege of spending more time with his beloveds, no matter how perfunctorily, he had to try.

“Professor, you are going to have to choose. If you are interested in my opinion, I think you should sit now. Your eyes are so much happier than they were.”

“Fine.”

“Really? I was expecting so much more fight,” she sounded delighted.

“If I _should_ …”

“No, Severus, that is wonderful. The artist will begin this evening.”

He put on his rarely worn formal green Slytherin robe. The artist was an old man who didn’t want to chat. At the end of the session, the artist let him see the sketch, and Severus was not as horrified with the image as he had feared.

The Headmistress warned him that they would unveil the portrait at graduation, and that he should be prepared to make a speech.

Hermione arrived several days before the ceremony to help him back up his quarters. They were leaving the day after graduation for the trip that had been redefined as a delayed honeymoon. She had worked for weeks straight to justify taking a two-week vacation.

Severus had just seen her the weekend before, but her belly already extended farther, and she was just beginning to take on that miserable look of late pregnancy that he had seen in many of the women in his life.

“Uft,” she said as she popped into view. She was wearing a loose-fitting peasant dress and sandals, and her hair in its natural curly state, the way she had worn it at university and the few years after. He thought she looked glorious, but she seemed not in the mood to her his prattle, so he kept that opinion to himself.

She had all of her belongs to stay at school and for their whole trip in a small, black handbag. Her adeptness at charms in spite of her general disdain for the magical community never failed to amuse him.

Hermione had only been in his quarters a handful of times, once when he was very sick with what turned out to be pneumonia, and twice when the Headmistress had invited her to speak to the sixth and seventh years about the law school and the Center.

They packed up his books, a task that took four hours, and then had dinner brought to the garden.

“You will miss this, at least,” she said to him after they had finished their meal. She was using one of the chairs as a foot rest and was leaning back attempting comfort. He had one hand lightly on her belly. The flowers on the grounds were just starting to bloom.

“I will miss this.”

“Will you leave instructions for the new Potions professor to find it?”

“I left some cryptic clues, but Hufflepuff, so it may be lost forever.”

“That would be a shame,” she said smiling at him.

“Had I only knew the seductive powers of the garden years earlier.”

“You did fine, Severus.”

They spent the next two days packing boxes, making them tiny and shipping them to London. By the end of the third day because of the lack of ventilation in the dungeon and an untimely heat wave, Hermione was reduced to wearing only knickers and one of his ribbed vests in order not to die of heat.

“That get-up is rather distracting, Darling.”

“I can’t fathom how alluring I must be in my current state,” she replied as she was going through his linen bin.

He showed her just how alluring she was in his shower with tepid water hitting them. They took dinner again in the garden. They took one last look. He left the lights, music deleted, emptied liquor cabinet, save a house-warming bottle of Old Ogden’s, and café table and chairs for his replacement.

They dressed the same for that graduation the next night as they had for hers. He wore his stole every year; hers had been a box since that night seventeen years ago and still looked brand new.  She exchanged a black sun dress for the cocktail variety she had worn then. She put the poppy combs in her charmed hair and wore the matching necklace she now usually wore only on Remembrance Day. She also had black ballet flats instead of the high-heels.

Teddy Lupin, who had his father’s looks and his mother’s personality, was graduating that year, and the whole entourage was turning up, making Snape more anxious about his speech.  Hermione took his hand as they ascended the stairs. They climbed carefully because of her condition and his nerves. She must have felt his hand shaking.

“You will be just fine,” she whispered as they entered the crowded foyer of graduates and families. An entire group of Gryffindors with a few strays in the mix were waiting for them. His first thought was to brace himself for the inevitably of his unborn child being sorted red and gold someday.

He left them to take his place a final time at the head table. The crowd had grown in size every year, and this was the largest yet. The Headmistress gave her usual speech hitting hard the themes of bravery, loyalty, curiosity, ambition, and unity. She acknowledged him, and then invited him to speak. With shaking hands, he brought his parchment to the podium and decided to look above the heads of the crowd.

“Hogwarts is often a harbour for lost souls. Few were more lost than mine when I arrived at age eleven forty-five years ago this September. I was sorted into the glorious Slytherin House, and the dungeon became a true home.

“We have now enjoyed an era of peace at Hogwarts and in the community at large for eighteen years. No one who has lived long enough to remember those events expects that it will last forever, but through tumult and tests of will that no institution should have to face, Hogwarts has not been broken. It remains the strongest, most vital institution in wizarding Britain.”

He paused as the Great Hall erupted in applause. Representatives from the Ministry started to look uncomfortable, which encouraged him to go on.

“Because of our Headmistress’s vision, Hogwarts has become a superior training ground for young witches and wizards than it has ever been. More importantly, the changes she implemented in the face of relentless doubt and criticism have made the school a safer, more efficient, more intellectually rigorous, more nurturing place for our children than ever. No one will deny the importance of our houses, but now Hogwarts is a place of unity above all.”

More applause rang out.

“More personally, this school is where I met my colleagues and mentors, Headmaster Dumbledore, Headmistress McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick, to whom I owe my career. I don’t attract hordes of people wanting to be my friend. Professor Emeritus Sprout, Madam Pomfrey, and least likely of all, Professor Longbottom decided to befriend me in spite of myself.

He paused and breathed. _Steady_.

“I met my wife, Ms. Granger,” he found her eyes in the crowd; they were brimming over with tears, and he read her lips and corrected himself. “Ms. Granger-Snape,” he looked away to prevent the lump that was moving rapidly from his chest to his throat from spilling over, “in these halls. Through some miracle, she decided I was worthy of her love, and my life changed immediately from a lonely, hermit existence to one of happy fulfillment.”

He again breathed deeply.

“Through my association with Ms. Granger-Snape, I found myself adopted into a family of Gryffindors,” there was a large whoop of SNAPE from their section of the hall. “However unlikely that situation is, and sometimes I question how it all came to be, the fact remains that if I didn’t retire from this school soon, at least half of my dungeon would be calling me Uncle Snape.”

One more breath and he would be done.

“The lost soul who entered this school is now someone with an embarrassment of riches in families: my beloved Hogwarts, the noble Slytherins, as a colleague, as a friend, as an honorary brother and uncle, as a husband…and soon as a father. I can never repay what the school has bestowed on me. I hope and expect it will continue to be a harbour for generations of witches and wizards, lost or not.”

He left the podium, and the Headmistress unveiled the portrait of an old man with swooping grey hair in the front, black framed glasses on a hooked nose, and a garishly green silk robe. The Hall rose in applause, and he was engulfed in red robes and Gryffindor ties. He sought out Hermione and they retreated to a quiet corner for the rest of the ceremony.

They apparated to the wizarding section of Venice in the morning. For most of the trip they were staying in Muggle accommodations and relying on Muggle transportation, specifically trains, which they both loved. Their travel almost always involved Muggle transportation once they reached their destination. It had always worked out, even that summer in Alabama where everyone expected that of course you can drive. They had investigated the bus schedule and spent weekends travelling all over the South via Greyhound.

They stayed three nights in Italy, then moved on to two in Croatia, which had a vibrant wizarding village they enjoyed, and then the remainder of the time they were in Greece. There was a lot of time spent in the water, a lot of time spent in bed, and many gorgeous meals consumed. Hermione tanned naturally, and her hair was golden again on top. She had two-piece bathing costumes in several colours, and she let her belly be on full display. Her breasts spilled out of the tops, and he subsequently requested “naps” every afternoon.

Her mother’s birthday was in July, and they always went out to dinner on that day. Hermione never wanted to talk much about it; not much left to say, really. Her mother would be eighty-one that year. They assumed she was still alive as no obituary had ever been published that Hermione had found in spite of daily searching. Ten years ago or so there had been a notice that the dental practice was for sale, and that had been the last contact.

Hermione was sadder this year for obvious reasons.

“I think she would have made a lovely Gran, older than average, but very doting,” she said wistfully at the restaurant in Greece.

Severus couldn’t begin to imagine his own parents as grandparents.

“My dad would have been a champion, of course,” she said. “But it won’t hurt for extended family.”

“More aunts, uncles, and cousins than an only child of only children could hope for.”

She took his hand. They had ordered an extravagant chocolate dessert in Mrs. Granger’s honor that Hermione also loved, but that was way too much for him. She was trying not to eat the whole thing.

“Finish it, Darling, I can’t eat another bite,” he told her.

They sadly apparated back to London the next day, back to reality.

They had exactly one month before the baby was due. Hermione was determined to complete four months’ worth of work in that time.

Severus was starting his new job at St. Mungo’s. He was working in the lab doing a bit of brewing necessary potions for the hospital, but most of his time would be spent working with healers on experimental cures. His contract called for work product rather than hours, so he planned to do as much as possible as well before the arrival of the baby.

He settled into a work routine, wearing a white robe with his name embroidered on the left breast pocket, mostly avoiding his fellow lab workers, and eating lunch in the staff room with Anabel and sometimes Babs on days she worked.

Two weeks into the job, on the morning of August second, he heard footsteps and voices rushing towards the lab. It was usually very quiet in what could be described as the dungeon of the hospital, so the noise was jarring. He glanced up to see Babs with a very harried looking Ksenia at the door.

“Hermione is fine,” Ksenia tried to reassure him as he bolted towards them.

“Clearly not if you’re here.”

“Severus, stop, breathe, and listen,” Babs ordered him. He did.

“We were just coming to get you. She’s here, checking in. Everything’s fine. Her water broke,” Ksenia explained.

“It’s too early!” He said, alarm rising.

“It’s two weeks early, hardly a crisis, Severus. Now, you need to calm down. Today is the day, I sincerely say, I will be the support my wife needs,” she said quietly but insistently as Ksenia’s eyes practically popped out of her head.

He breathed in and out gathering as much patience as his body could manage. “Today is the day I sincerely say I will be the support Hermione needs.”

“Excellent. Let’s go.”

*********

 

Deciding where and how to have this baby had been its own challenge. Originally, Hermione wanted to give birth at home with only Severus there to help. He had categorically refused. She had pouted; he had _not_ given in.

Then she decided she would have a scheduled C-section at the Muggle hospital. It appealed to her need to control everything. Ginny, Fleur, Maisy, and Ksenia had staged an intervention to sell her on the wizarding way of giving birth.

“Anti-pain charms,” Ksenia said.

“Healing charms,” Maisy said.

“Stretching charms. Skin repair charms. Anti-bleeding potions. Many, many varieties of helpful potions,” Severus added from the next room.

“Thank you, Snape, we will handle this,” Ksenia called out.

He grumbled a retort into his whiskey glass.

“What is your fear, Hermione? I think it’s helpful to say it out loud,” Ginny encouraged her.

“It’s not really a fear. It’s knowing that those midwives are going to push all of that earth-mother bollocks on me, and I will want to run out of the room.”

“They won’t. Tell them not to say anything non-medical to you. I turned that rubbish off immediately,” Ksenia reassured her.

She finally agreed with the caveat that at the first mention of woo nonsense, she was going to a Muggle hospital for a C-section faster than one could say _gods bless the NHS_.

 

*********

 

When he finally reached her, she was calmly sitting on a large, white towel on a bed with a pile of hospital clothing beside her.

“Severus, did you hear?”

He looked at her levelly.

“Okay, I suppose you did. Did they tell you my water broke at the Wizengamaaah? I threatened to stay and have the baby right there on the floor if they didn’t reconsider our appeal.”

“And did it work?”

“Of course not. Ksenia dragged me away. Anyway, it’s only a matter of time.”

Ever since the American Supreme Court had issued their ruling legalizing gay marriage in all fifty states the year before, _it’s only a matter of time_ had become her mantra.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No, just normal pregnancy woes. They’re bringing me a potion to start contractions.”

“That will be very fast acting, Hermione. The healers will help you with the pain as well, but you should prepare yourself.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“You should also change into your hospital robes,” he reminded her.

“Yes, thank you. I can’t do this without you.”

“I will be the support you need.”

“Is Babs around?”

“How did you guess?”

She laughed and took the robes into the lav in case the midwife appeared with the potion before she had changed. She was using her wand on the trail of fluid she left as she walked. Severus decided to sit down and breathe some more while she was in the other room. He diverted his eyes from the bloody towel left on the bed.

The midwife arrived with the potion. Severus was expecting an old witch, hunched over, craggy voice, stereotypical midwife healer, but Miss Forte was in her mid-twenties, and of course, was a former student.

“Professor Snape, hello! I saw the name on the chart and could hardly believe my luck. Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Midwife Forte,” he offered his hand, and she shook it.

“Oh, call me Jonquil.”

_Probably not._

“Have you heard about my wife’s preferences?”

“Yes, stick to the science. I will say only what’s necessary.”

“Good plan,” he said quietly as Hermione emerged in a robe to her knees.

“Mrs. Granger-Snape, I have your potion.”

That Hermione didn’t immediately correct the _Mrs._ to _Ms._ made Severus realize she was nervous. He took her hand as she climbed on the bed, and her whole arm was shaking.

“Shhhh, Darling, you will be marvelous,” he whispered. “Will you cast an anti-pain charm or should I,” he asked the healer.

“I will as soon as the potion is down,” Ms. Forte said, and he reminded himself to let the young woman do her job.

“Shouldn’t we see if I need it first?” Hermione asked, and Severus bit his tongue.

“We could do that, but sometimes the contractions come on so fast that it’s hard to get on top off them if we wait,” Miss Forte explained.

“Okay,” Hermione took a deep breath and swallowed the potion. Ms. Forte immediately drew her wand and whispered an incantation to Hermione’s abdomen.

“Once the contractions are two minutes apart, I have another potion for you to take.”

About thirty seconds later, Hermione started vocalizing her breathing.

“Darling?” He asked her.

“It’s okay. That was fast,” she said and grabbed his hand.

It took a little over an hour for the contractions to be spaced at two minutes. Ms. Forte had stayed the whole time, quietly writing notes in a chair in the corner. Hermione had been in some pain, but she handled it well. She very enthusiastically took the potion.

“It was about to get away from me,” she told him quietly.

“But it didn’t,” he reassured her.

“This phase can be very quick or it could last a while, Mrs. Granger-Snape,” Ms. Forte said.

“Will you please just call me Hermione,” she snapped.

That pointed to very quick.

Ms. Forte sprang into action and transfigured the bed into a set up for delivery. She gently guided Hermione’s legs into the little racks that held them in place and draped her at the waist for a bit of modesty before reaching in to check her. She cast a stream of spells quietly. Severus didn’t have a bounty of memories of Ms. Forte from her days at Hogwarts; his impressions of her was as a quiet and average student, perhaps slightly better than average. He was surprised at how competent she was.

“Okay,” she said quickly. “Baby’s head is just there. This will be fast. You can do this, Hermione. There will be some pain, it’s unavoidable, but I will cast another spell to help,” she quickly raised her wand again, “And let your body take over, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione was close to tears and panicking again, and it made his own heart beat too fast.

“I mean it knows exactly what to do. I will try to help your mind, but your body will do its job, okay?”

Hermione’s face contorted.

“Contraction, Hermione, push right now,” Ms. Forte said calmly.

He squeezed her hand as she bore down and made a noise that was half grunt and half scream.

“Lovely job. Roar into the contraction,” Ms. Forte praised her.

“I swear to god if that’s a Gryffindor crack,” Hermione snarled.

“No, Hermione,” Ms. Forte said calmly. “The noise you made is a good one, that’s all.” She smiled gently. “Another contraction, push.”

Hermione bore down and roared again.

“Head’s just here, Hermione. One more push and the head will be out.”

Then for some reason, perhaps because once again he was fighting tears, he lost his head.

“Would you kindly remove this baby from my vagina?” He said to her and laughed just as a contraction hit.

“Shut the fuuuuck uuuuuuuup!” she roared as the head emerged.

“There now, Hermione, just breathe for a moment. In and out, let me just look here, and your baby will be out in just a moment,” Ms. Forte was crouched by the head using her wand and whispering incantations.

“What did I do?” Hermione sobbed. “The first thing our baby heard was me swearing at you,” she cried.

“It was my fault, Darling, and it won’t remember a thing.”

“One more push, Hermione,” Ms. Forte urged.

The baby slid completely out into a blanket in Ms. Forte’s hands. She scooped it up and laid it on Hermione’s chest. The baby looked outraged and let out a lusty cry.

“That’s what we want to hear!” Ms. Forte said. Hermione took the baby in her arms, and he put his arm around Hermione to be as close as possible. She moved the blanket, and they both looked down at the same time.

“Helen Elisabeth Snape,” Hermione said quietly through her tears, and he gave up the game. Tears flowed freely down his face as she handed him their daughter.

 

********

Mother and baby were doing so well, by evening they were allowed to go home. Ms. Forte was a floo away and would be there in the morning to check in. They had asked everyone to give them twenty-four hours to have for the three of them, and they would be thrilled to receive guests. 

They were all tucked into bed. Helen was swaddled in so many layers she looked like caterpillar in a cocoon. She had scant black hair, very dark eyes, and a nose that looked exactly like…her mother’s.

She was half asleep against Hermione, but she was still rooting around with her mouth, leading with her chin.

“She seems quite brilliant.” he remarked.

“I agree. I think she’s rather advanced.”

“Probably not a squib,” he said.

“I would guess not, but we probably shouldn’t judge her off known squib behavior since Filch is really the only one we know,” Hermione advised, trying not to laugh. “Probably not Hufflepuff, though.”

“I don’t know. Ms. Forte is a Hufflepuff.”

“Is she really? She was quite impressive,” Hermione allowed. She was leaning against him, with his arm around her, and Helen had latched her mouth onto Hermione’s breast and was sucking away. He stroked Helen’s head with his thumb, and she fell asleep again letting the nipple fall out of her mouth.

“That’s just amazing,” he said in awe. “Do you wish we had let the horde come tonight?” He whispered. He had a sudden, unexpected desire to introduce his genius daughter to the world.

“No, Darling, my tit is hanging out,” she yawned.

“It looks fantastic,” he said encouragingly.

“Thanks,” she said, yawning again and putting her breast back into her robe. Ginny had given her this garment with a gathered top she had told Hermione was perfect for the first few days when baby just wanted to eat, sleep, and cry. So far, Helen had been much more interested in the first two than the latter. Snape hoped their luck would hold.

“You settle in for a bit, Darling, you sound exhausted, I’ll take her.”

“But what if she wants to eat?

“If she really gets into a strop, I’ll pass her off, but I bet she’ll be content to suck on my knuckle a while if she wakes.”

Hermione handed him the baby and curled into the bed toward her husband and daughter; asleep in moments.

“All right then, Helen, I have so much to talk to you about,” he whispered to the tiny girl snuggled into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN1mfwY7gsQ
> 
> Happy Fathers’ Day—thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. I’m so grateful to everyone who took time to comment.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Over Time and Tide: Chapter 1 Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12213324) by [MelGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelGreen/pseuds/MelGreen)




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